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I 



ANGELA MOORE 


Painted by Princess Troiibetzkoy (Amelie Rives) 


THE 

PASSER-BY 

AN EPISODE 


PRINCE 

PIERRE 

TROUBETZKOY 

It 

I 


NEW YORK 

DOUBLEDAY PAGE COMPANY 
1908 




First Printed September 1908 

Reprinted November 1908 




PRINTED BY 

WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD 
PLYMOUTH, ENG. 


TO YOU 


AMELIE, 

WHO WROTE “AUGUSTINE THE MAN, 
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK, 
BECAUSE IT IS DUE TO YOU 
AS THE LIGHT IS DUE 


TO THE FLAME 





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M rs. MOORE was lunching alone that day after 
having spent the morning in washing and 
drying her hair ; she felt weary of herself, of every- 
thing and of everybody in New York. She had just 
telephoned to her dressmaker putting off an appoint- 
ment for that afternoon because she felt it beyond her 
endurance to drive through Fifth Avenue with its 
haze from the dust of buildings rising and crumbHng. 

Her attention for an instant was attracted by the 
proffered dish : lamb chops and green peas. She 
helped herself to peas only. She had no appetite. 
“ Chops . . . chops, chops.” How could one eat 
things with such brutal names, anyhow ? And there 
were men who wore chop- whiskers. How absurd ! 
But was anything else less absurd ? All that she did 
herself ? Everything that she saw everybody else 
doing ? . . . 

She turned an apparently indolent gaze to the 
window while she controlled a mad desire to scream 
— a shrill scream that would have relieved her. But 
there were the servants who disappeared behind 
screens with an air of discreet mystery between courses, 
to reappear moving as if in obedience to the rules of 
a grave rite with noiseless steps from the table to the 
sideboard to and fro, taking away untouched dishes, 
bringing fresh ones, crossing each other, following 
7 


8 


THE PASSEE-BY 

each other with the gravity of officiating priests. 
How irritating, how shallow their gravity was though ! 
Had she screamed they would have lost their com- 
posure, whereas a priest ... Oh ! Nonsense ! 

Her nervous weariness gave place to the irritation 
which was latent. She felt irritated against herseK, 
at the inane wandering of her thoughts. She wished 
to have something to crunch, to break between her 
fingers, but bread was all that she could vent her 
irritation on without loss of dignity before the servants. 

“ I am on the verge of nervous prostration, that’s 
the matter with me.” And then she smiled at the 
remembrance of Belle’s baby laid up with nervous 
prostration and barely ten months old. 

She sipped her coffee, lighted a cigarette and got 
up. Cigarettes soothed her in spite of the doctor’s 
opinion. She inhaled deeply, and the sight of the 
smoke’s leisurely meandering seemed to enfold in 
blandness, to subdue and lay at rest her poor thoughts 
lashed about as aimlessly as the flags which she saw 
perpetually flapping on the wind-swept heights of 
New York’s buildings. 

She passed through a formal reception-room into 
one where she usually received, and where she felt 
more at home. Every piece of furniture in it had 
been chosen with a discriminating taste, but now to 
her perception they so melted into a single whole that 
none attracted her attention specially. 

SettUng herself on a lounge she picked up the last 
book of Anatole France, opened it with the ivory 
paper-cutter which she had left in it as a mark and 
read : “ Tamenais la conversation sur le caractere des 
femmes, Cheron en vint a me dire qyCil y en avail de 


THE PASSEE-BY 9 

trois sortes, les amoureuseSy les curieuses et les indiffe- 
rentes,'^^ 

She dropped the book on her lap and let her head 
sink back in the cushions. What did it matter what 
women were like ? Foreign men seemed to think 
such a lot about women. If one was to judge from 
their novels they thought of little else. Yet did they 
make women happier than American men did ? It 
seemed to her from what she read that foreign men 
thought ceaselessly of another woman. American 
men instead had fixed a theoretical standard of woman- 
hood to which they looked up in fiction, and contem- 
plated in weekly illustrations seasoned with cupids, 
then, having so disposed of the matter, gave it no more 
thought. 

But what did she really know of American men 
beside the display of their abifities in Wall Street, 
in real estate, in railroads, or in mines ? Generally 
they were considerate, they certainly were that, be- 
cause it wasn’t fair to take Fred as an example of the 
kind, although he could be considerate too, when it 
was not inconvenient to him. 

Again she picked up Anatole France’s book, for 
the sequel to her last thought was not agreeable just 
now. And again she read. Her eyes went through 
half a page, then she reahzed that she had not taken 
in the meaning of a single fine. In the meantime the 
thought which she wanted to cut short had asserted 
itself. 

Oh ! If Fred would only take her abroad ! Busi- 
ness, business, business, always business. . . . He 
enjoyed it. . . . It was a game, a sport to him. . . . 
It was in his blood. ... He cared for httle else except 


10 


THE PASSEE-BY 

spasmodically, as when after building a gallery as an 
addition to the house he had filled it with pictures in a 
month. He had scarcely ever looked at them after- 
ward. How like him that was ! Yet he would not 
have sold them for anything in the world. . . . They 
had become his “ property ” which meant consecra- 
tion. . . . She too was his “ property,” Hke the 
picture gallery. He had wooed and married her in 
just the same way that he had got the pictures. Both 
she and the pictures were very well set off. Both shining 
as a symbol of his success in business, as an advertise- 
ment . . . yes, as an advertisement ! He gave her 
generously anything that he would not miss himself. 
But would he let her go abroad, for instance ? Oh, no ! 
that wasn’t convenient to him. She was his property, 
and while he might not have any particular use for it 
he must know that it was there in case he should need 
it. No, she didn’t believe all husbands were like that. 
In fact, he was rather unique in his objection to her 
going abroad, and it was dreadful to hear of all her 
women friends who had already taken passage, to 
listen to their motoring plans for this or that country. 
And none would enjoy their trip as she would have 
enjoyed hers. ... Oh ! Anything for a breath of 
fresh air. ... It was stifling ! Stifling here ! . 

Sometimes he had seemed near to making a conces- 
sion. If he settled this or that deal, then . . . But 
there were always new deals to be settled. She was 
no nearer her dream now than when he had first 
seemed inclined to fulfil it. In the meanwhile year 
after year was passing . . .. ten since she’d been 
married ! 

She tossed restlessly on her lounge at the shock with 


11 


THE PASSEE-BY 

which this thought assailed her. She always tried to 
keep it out of her mind, but when it once came it 
possessed her. Then, as if panic-stricken, her mind 
harped backward and forward, seeking comfort in 
memories and in speculations. But what a monotony 
in the past ten years of her life, shrunk now to nothing- 
ness ! Some puny vanities satisfied were all that she 
had hved for. And the next ten years would fiy even 
faster. Day after day of the same colour would fiy 
past, then she would be forty, forty-five ! Her youth 
gone. . . . Nothing done ; after that her fife to end 
a blank. Why have hved ? What could the mean- 
mg of such a life be ? A sardonic joke ? Well, what 
else ? . . . 

After all it was while she had been looking forward 
to Hving that she had really hved ... in the dreams 
of her girlhood. . . . She had hved then. And after- 
wards ? Afterwards she had existed as an accessory, 
a conjugal accessory, a social accessory, her spontane- 
ous longings, her aspirations removed out of the way. 
They were required neither in her eon jugal nor in her 
social capacity. What was required of her was that 
which she felt to be the least hke herself, and to this 
she had to bend. Why was the strain of bending so 
hard at times ? So horribly hard ? Like a slow 
suicide ? . . . Like watching herself being suppressed, 
smothered slowly, slowly, stirred by revolt, paralysed 
by inertia ? Oh, the pity of it ! . . . 

Yes, the pity of it, to face the end, the limit of one’s 
possibilities hardened into definite events : one’s 
name, with the description of one’s gown, in the papers 
the day after a ball or a brilliant opera night — that 
was the height at which she could aim. 


12 THE PASSEE-BY 

She remembered the first year of her marriage, 
when on entering a ballroom or her box at the opera 
she used to feel a thrill at the consciousness of her 
own attractions, at the effect that a new gown would 
produce ; and how she used to hold herself straight 
with the supple straightness of a creature who might 
leave the ground at any minute to fiy. It had been 
said of her then that she fioated on air rather than 
walked, and this had come round to her, increasing 
her dehghtful intoxication. But how artfully, while 
tense in the attitude of soaring, she had concealed her 
self-consciousness by holding her head rather low with 
an expression of modesty that lent grace to the line 
of her neck, seen in profile ! She was still in love then. ^ 

And now, unable to carry herself in any other 
manner, she detested her present hkeness to what she 
had been then. Now, when, sheathed in a new gown, 
she entered a ballroom or her box at the opera, the 
only consciousness left was one of affectation. What- 
ever she did now in a mood of true modesty seemed 
only to aggravate the frivolous ostentation in which 
she had once indulged with pleasure. Her sHm figure, 
her bent head, it seemed to her, fiaunted abroad her 
silly vanity in response to the inspecting looks focussed 
upon her. 

To think that there were people who dreaded the 
dissolution of their identity after death ! Oh, to 
lose now, even now, the sense of her identity ! Of 
what did it consist but memories ? And what were 
these but torments when they recalled vanished hopes 
and happiness ? What was there in common between 
herself and the girl that she had been ? . . . 

She closed her eyes with a shiver of sadness, and a 


THE PASSER-BY 13 

retrospective mirage unfolded itself before her mental 
vision. She saw clearly the old southern house. It 
had the benevolent air of gentle-folk whose poverty 
showed itseK only as one more dignity. How affec- 
tionate, how dear it looked peeping out at the end of 
the lawn between the interlaced foHage of the tuhp- 
trees that loomed in front of it ! 

She saw herself cantering up the lawn in the dusk, 
a white blurr under the dark trees that arched above 
like the dome of a cathedral. A balmy fragrance of 
acacia blooms came wafted to her, mingling with the 
smell of her horse hot after a long ride. All around 
her the darkness was pulsating with the upward 
shooting glow of fire-flies, from the outhouses came 
the buzzing rh3d)hm of a jews’ harp. 

Her eyes still closed, she whistled three notes gently. 
She repeated them again and again while her fancy 
converted them into the call of the whip-poor-will. 
The sound evoked the vision of wild woods opening 
on moonht fields with their unceasing chaunt of passion 
soaring from m3a’iads of invisible fives, soaring all 
around her, from murmuring creeks, from meadows, 
soaring like the fire-flies, soaring like her aspirations, 
like her faith in vague and great achievements in a 
wider world of greater beauty, of intenser fife — ^the 
real fife . . . poor, poor girl . . . was she dead now ? 

No, there wasn’t much left in her of the radiant girl 
whose short career went on unfolding itself before her 
closed eyes. The next phase of it was in Washington, 
where she had come out in a whirl of dinners, dances, 
and flirtations, her vanity soon subdued by her 
wondering realization of modern thought, by her 
craving for it. What an awakening it had been ! 


14 


THE PASSER-BY 

She remembered her sustained delight during that 
whole winter while she had lived absorbed in intense 
and receptive readings with a set of girls gathered 
under the tutelage of a cultured and world-wise 
ambassadress. She had felt it then in her enthusiasm 
like a realization of Tennyson’s “ Princess.” And it 
had been a step nearer to the wider world, a deepening 
foreglow of the real life which would be hers one day. . . . 

And it was. It happened at Bar-Harbour in a 
dazzle, in a full radiation of bliss. . . . 

She opened her eyes to the real life which surrounded 
her now that the dazzle and the bliss had vanished, 
withered as if by a sneering, gleeful power lurking 
aU round her. There it was, an ironical grin peerin 
through the bookcase, through the Reynolds on tb 
wall, through the very wall, through the flowei 
suddenly breathing mockery, from everything on 
which her gaze happened to fall. 

“ Life ! The real life ! ” she sighed to herself. 
“ Well, I must be sensible.” Then she smiled at the 
meaning that the last word had acquired on Fred’s 
lips during the first year of their marriage. Surely 
she had been “ sensible ” enough since. Why had 
he changed like that ? Or rather, by what miracle 
had he been a demi-god for six months — well, for 
three months, at any rate ? Yes, it was after three 
months that he had begun to tell her that she must be 
“ sensible,” but it had taken her three months more 
to reahze what he meant by it. What a fool she had 
been ! 

The gross fatuity of men ! A man who prided 
himself on thinking wrote “ Sex and Character ” : 
women were swayed by sex, men only by intellect ! 


15 


THE PASSEE-BY 

Of course business men did not bother about the 
elucidation of such a proposition, but they acted on it 
nevertheless. What else could a woman want but . . . 

“ Be sensible ! ” . . . Well, for a long time now she 
hadn’t given him an opportunity of saying that again. 

Oh ! Had he but tried to understand her ! And 
how desperately she had tried to make him under- 
stand. ... He had been all to her! Why had he 
withdrawn the warmth in which love flowered ? 
Couldn’t he love her hke a child who was afraid of 
being alone, who needed tenderness ? the tenderness 
that even a dog sought, the longing for which she saw 
in her pet terrier’s eyes every time she caressed him ? 

. . “Be sensible 1 ” Because she had tried to get 
iJose to him, to stay close to him, while he mistook 
,Jiis yearning for an untimely ardour that interfered 
with his office hours. . . . 

There was never the infinite variety of deHcate 
shades prompted by tenderness, but only abrupt 
transitions, the following of his own moods without 
any consideration for hers. What did he care about 
them ? What did he care about her as she really 
was ? He did not really know her, no, not even when 
he fancied suddenly that he cared for her. He would 
have cared for any pleasing woman then, very much 
as a hygienic and agreeable necessity. He didn’t 
need to know her for that. To watch her as his 
property was sufficient for him. 

This idea she turned in her mind, spurred by its 
wounding suggestions, wondering where lay the 
difference between legal infidelity and this in which 
she was legally and consciously his accompHce in his 
infidelity to her real self. 


16 


THE PASSEE-BY 

Oh ! If she could only have changed the setting to 
all this ! Breathed another atmosphere, heard of 
something else than the last play, the last gossip, the 
last bookof the season, the last news of the market. . . . 

The door opened and a servant came in carrying a 
telegram on a salver. She opened it and read : “ Will 
arrive to-day may I dine with you to-night and bring 
Mr. Lore with love — Elizabeth.” 

“ Mr. Lore with love.” H’m ! It depends on what 
Mr. Lore is Hke. Silvian Lore . . . Silvian Lore . . . 
she mused. The name was rather familiar. She 
remembered having heard of him before. But what 
was he exactly ? The only association which came 
up with the name was one of vague abuse. However, 
she could remember nothing worse said against him 
than that he was overrated, which struck her as rather 
amusing. When ? Where had she heard of him ? 

. . . Suddenly it all came to her, the place, the time, 
and what had been said of this new attache at the 
British Embassy in Washington. His romantic love 
affair years ago with a young Hungarian girl tragically 
ended by her death in the South African war, where 
she had followed him soon after their marriage. His 
bravery on the battlefield where he had courted death. 
. . . Lady Selden raving about his manly beauty 
and his cleverness, defending him against some un- 
favourable remark made by Jimmy Clare. . . . 

Yes, she would certainly hke to have him to dinner. 
He must be interesting. Ehzabeth always knew in- 
teresting people. But wasn’t she dining out herself ? 

This doubt developed instantly into something hke 
a keen disappointment. Then her engagement book 
appeased her. She was having a small party of her 


THE PASSEE-BY 17 

own. So she sat down at her desk to write a note to 
EHzabeth. But how stupid of Ehzabeth not to say 
where she was going to stop in town ! 

The front door bell rang, and suddenly she felt that 
she could not see anybody. Anybody that she knew 
would have bored her. If she couldn’t go far away, 
at least she would only see people who came from far 
away — Hke Silvian Lore, for instance, and “ with love.” 
That would be a joke on Ehzabeth ! 

But it was singular how the joke seemed hned with 
the pleasing quality of an omen. Of course, that was 
quite absurd. She got up from her>desk and Hghted 
a cigarette, but it did not soothe her. Everything 
about the room gave her an unbearable sense of 
satiety. She could quite understand everybody’s in- 
difference for a home and a home life in New York ; 
the eagerness with which her friends changed houses, 
built new ones, hved in them a year, then sold them 
or rented them, went to Hve in hotels for six months, 
rebuilt themselves new houses. 

She must go out. And she ordered her carriage. 

But when haK an hour later she was driving down 
Fifth Avenue, the same weariness akin to mental 
nausea seized her again. Why had she gone out ? 
“ Oh, what an idiot ! ” She had just remembered 
that she had never written the note to Ehzabeth ; at 
the same time the “ Cambridge ” flashed through her 
mind. ... Of course ! Oh, what an idiot ! 

At the Cambridge, in fact, the groom reported that 
Mrs. Glendover was expected that afternoon fronj 
Washington. While he spoke, she noticed that an 
awning was being rigged along the pavement of the 
Waldorf, and she wondered what senseless kind of an 

B 


18 


THE PASSEE-BY 

affair was going to take place there. She need not 
have noticed it. The thing was trivial enough, some 
charity entertainment probably of which she was, no 
doubt, one of the lady patronesses. But now she tasted 
a morbid enjoyment in sharpening to an irritating 
edge ever3d)hing that repelled her with a sensation of 
satiety. 

She averted her head in disgust and noticed the 
motionless groom waiting for her orders. 

Where was she to go now ? 

The contemplation of the many things that sL 
ought to have done, the imaginary vision of the shops 
where she ought to have gone, of the houses where she 
ought to have called, weighed her down with fatigue. 
She attempted feebly to choose the most important 
for that day, but as they were all of about the same 
importance, and as she had to leave most of them un- 
done, anyhow, she concluded that she might as well 
leave undone even those that she might have done. 
At once she felt a relief, and, with the abundance of 
energy thus freed, she pencilled a spirited note to 
Elizabeth, asking her to dine with, Mr. Lore. 

Then her immediate future clouded again. She 
could not go home. What was she to do there until 
dinner-time ? Yet to drive through the park, where 
she knew every tree, every policeman. . . . Her lovely 
face brightened suddenly with a flush. She had just 
remembered Mrs. Berille’s invitation for that very 
afternoon. Something out of the way as were most 
of Mrs. Berille’s entertainments. A bridge party to 
begin with, followed by tea and a queer Patagonian 
dance. Mrs. Berille was producing for the flrst time 
in New York a Patagonian dancer. 


II 


M rs. MOORE did not care particularly for large 
dinner-parties. They were no better than in- 
flictions brought round periodically by her social 
■^^obligations. People then talked to talk. They told 
one another what they all more or less knew already. 
But she had other parties too, small parties of elect 
guests, many of whom were people that one never met 
in society. She herself would have found it difficult 
to say whether this was because they did not care for 
it, or it for them. They treated society with a gener- 
ous indulgence for certain shortcomings, to which 
they did not fail to allude with humorous irony. 
On the other hand, if the hostesses who were recog- 
nized as society leaders wished to meet them, they 
seemed also shy of asking them to their own houses. 
For some time Mrs. Moore had caressed the ambitious 
dream of fusing these two elements, wishing to show 
her society friends the intellectual briUiancy of her 
Bohemian friends. But what had happened ? Once 
a wonderful but over - sensitive musician could not 
find his inspired mood in the altered surroundings, 
and never made a move toward the piano. A singer 
who had so far thrilled his Bohemian audience with a 
repertoire of the rarest old songs had come out suddenly 
with modern ones of a cheap sentiment afity, which 
had led him soon away from her to popular success, 
19 


20 


THE PASSER-BY 

and as for the humorists, they had appeared to her 
like baits approached and nibbled at, and had emerged 
rather jaded from the experiment. They had felt that 
they must Hve up to their reputation and had strained 
themselves in the process. To recuperate from it 
they had joined in the silence required by bridge, and 
having thus found their way to popularity some of 
them too had become less faithful to her. What she 
had most regretted in this connection was a clever 
young writer’s losing in one evening the earnings of 
three months. He had remained quite dull for some 
time afterward. 

So now she had resumed her httle parties of a 
decidedly Bohemian character, having become wise 
enough to know that the attention of a few congenial 
listeners was more stimulating than the applause of 
a gallery, either to prose or to music. 

It was to one of these small parties that Ehzabeth 
Glendover had happened to ask herself with Silvian 
Lore. 

However idly Mrs. Moore had been wondering 
what he would be Uke, she had unintentionally con- 
ceived an image suggested by the little that she had 
heard of him and by the sound of his name. But 
when she saw him she found him quite unlike what she 
had imagined. He was rather tall and better-looking 
than she had expected — a point about which she did 
not care, and which, on the contrary, antagonized her, 
as if on that account he might feel himself entitled 
to partialities on her part. She did not actually 
think this, she felt it with an instinctive sense of having 
to be on her guard. This feehng was conveyed to her 
by ever3rthing about him, by the impeccable fit of his 


21 


THE PASSEE-BY 

clothes showing off the fineness of his figure, and in 
the cut of which nothing struck her as different from 
that of other men’s clothes, while at the same time 
they had a distinction that the others did not have. 
Then his manner, not like that of any one at a first 
meeting, but almost suggesting a previous acquaint- 
ance between them, as if he knew her already and 
meant to make up now for all the time that he had not 
seen her — very engaging yet not intrusive, but ab- 
sorbing her at once out of proportion to the attention 
that she owed to her other guests. His eyes, they were 
grey, had the piercing clearness of those of an eagle 
or of a hawk when he was not looking at her, then 
suddenly became a sparkle of good-natured mischief 
or of comprehending attention the moment that she 
met them. She understood how he could have been 
fearless in battle and delicate as a friend or as a lover. 
The ease with which their talk alighted immediately 
beyond the range of commonplace prologues, and the 
way in which he opened at once a subject that she 
need not only pretend to be interested in, conflicted 
strangely with the antagonism that he had stirred in 
her together with the feehng of having to be on her 
defence. 

She was rapidly drawn to the side of the conflict 
favourable to him. Unconscious of being coaxed into 
any partiahty, she liked to think that her antagonism 
had been a prejudice. An immediate elation followed, 
and what pleased her in him gained value from the 
difficulty which had stood in its way. 

At dinner he began telling her of some 'precieux 
French writers Httle known outside of Parisian hterary 
chques. Then she became interested in his decipher- 


22 


THE PASSEE-BY 

ing a sonnet of Mallarme on Edgar Poe. He had 
known Mallarme intimately, and his verses were per- 
fectly easy, he said. And so she thought too after his 
elucidation, when every word, having temporarily 
been transposed in a normal sequence, began suddenly 
to vibrate with vivid efficacy. All the same, it oc- 
curred to her to ask why these poets should purposely 
make conundrums out of their verses. 

“ Don’t you enjoy his verses more now than if their 
meaning had been too obvious ? ” And he went on 
to say how the most precious things had to be defended 
by the veil of mystery from the aggressive profanation 
of the vulgar, who would drop back before so dehcate 
an obstacle leaving an exclusive path for the subtle. 
The further one went in the discovery of beauty and 
truth, the less our everyday language was adapted to 
express them, we had to adopt formulas and symbols. 
Poetry and reHgion had their X’s as mathematics had, 
carrying the same persuasive evidence, but for the 
initiated only. 

Before she could think, she asked : “ Are you a 
Cathohc ? ” 

He assented with a discreet gravity. 

This pleased her. There was something gently 
thrilling in the contrast between his culture and a 
faith that took for granted what one could not under- 
stand. Nothing that one really understood could 
give one such a superior, restful confidence. How 
she envied at times the all-relying faith that she read 
in her pet terrier’s eyes ! He could never conceive 
her as falHble enough to forget him. How often she 
had wished for such a faith ! But how vainly. Her 
faith had died with the radiant young girl that she 


23 


THE PASSEE-BY 

had been. And she had since realized that faith could 
not be procured by the mere wishing for its utihtarian 
purpose. She wondered how he had come by it, and 
whether it was vivid in him. She felt that if a germ 
of it were left in her it might perhaps quicken at the 
touch of another faith secure in its full hfe. This 
thought drew her to him with a spiritual impulse. 

But Lore had turned the other way, and in answer 
to Mrs. Glendover was stating that he had learned to 
like terrapin, “ a most subtle food ! ” 

Then an astronomer on her left told her that he was 
expecting any day a proof that Mars was inhabited. 
He had the moral certainty of it already, and enter- 
tained the conviction that means of communication 
would be discovered soon after the evident proof of 
its being inhabited. 

She reahzed that this was no ordinary piece of news, 
yet she had to show a fictitious interest. Somehow 
it fell flat. Mallarme’s verses with their recondite 
meaning had thrilled her as the expected communica- 
tion with the inhabitants of Mars did not. 

She hstened to the astronomer while following such 
shreds of conversation as she could catch all round the 
table, and it seemed to her suddenly as if what was 
being said gained lustre from the pleasure of eating 
and drinking, a pleasure stimulating generous indis- 
crimination. Serious and frivolous topics were inter- 
woven with facile alertness. At the end of the table a 
painter and an actress were discussing the Russian 
crisis, and fast setthng the question. But what Lore 
was sa3dng to Mrs. Glendover she could not hear. 
That low, well-bred English voice of his was lost in 
the general droning, except for her to whom he spoke. 


24 


THE PASSER-BY 

Their mutual attitude suggested intimacy more than 
familiarity. An intimacy that Mrs. Moore might 
have inferred from Elizabeth’s telegram, but of which 
she had not thought until now. She knew Elizabeth 
well, she had known her for years, ever since she her- 
self had come out in Washington, where her friend had 
become the centre of an intellectual set, with the fame 
of a charm that caused continuous and spicy rumours, 
unjustifiable when one considered the lynx-eyed 
interest there of everybody in everybody else. . . . But 
New York was not Washington . . . many a romance 
started in Washington had its epilogue in New York. . . . 

This flashed through her mind, and she recoiled 
from it as from the prick of a needle. 

Just then Elizabeth addressed her across Silvian 
Lore. “We were saying what a pity it is that we 
can’t have any music in Washington. The Boston 
Symphony once or twice, and that’s all ! It seems 
such a shame, and everybody pretending that they 
like music. . . .” 

“ Yes,” put in Lore, “ but they don’t qualify. They 
may mean that of ‘ Florodora.’ ” 

“ All the better for me ! You’ll have to come here 
to hear it, both of you ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Moore, with 
a very perceptible emphasis on the “ both of you.” 

Mrs. Glendover laughed, waving her fan with a 
gesture of pretty menace, then she turned to speak 
to her neighbour on the other side, while Lore told 
Mrs. Moore that in fact he had to come to New York 
every now and then to hear some good music. He 
did not miss the Wagner performances if he could 
help it, and only the week before he had heard such a 
ripping concert ! Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. 


25 


THE PASSEE-BY 

“ Oh ! At the Carnegie ? With Weingartner ? ” 

“ Yes ! Were you there too ? ” 

“ Of course ! ” 

They looked at each other in silence for a second or 
two, during which she attributed to him her own 
thought ; a sHghtly wondering realization of the fact 
that they had been then in a communion — a rather 
close communion — of feehng while still unaware of 
each other’s existence. Something Hke a fateful 
initiation toward each other’s completer knowledge. 

“We ought to have met before,” he said, with a 
smile that for her finished his sentence so as to con- 
firm her assumption. 

“ Yes,” she replied in a casual tone, while a fresh 
gladness coursed through all her being. This sensa- 
tion she did not pause to wonder at or to analyse, 
any more than the parched earth would analyse the 
revivifying effect of a shower after a period of barren 
sultriness. Only, with the unconscious cunning of 
one who has by chance come on something to which 
he has a dubious right, and wanders away with the 
uncontested appropriation, she turned to speak to 
the astronomer, to speak of anything and hear without 
paying attention to an3rfching that he said, while the 
fresh gladness sang, sang within her a song that had 
long been silent. 

At times during that evening it was almost with 
hesitation that she talked again to him in the fear of 
striking some new vein which might break the spell 
of affinity that she hked to believe existing between 
them. It was not that what they said was either 
intimate or profound, but rather as if the varied 
facihty of their conversation implied a previous state 


26 


THE PASSEE-BY 

of intimacy for which neither of them was censurably 
responsible. They never had to drop down to per- 
sonalities, or to the news of the stock exchange, or 
to the current plays, the last opera, or the last novel. 
No, with him she floated on a new plane of hfe full of 
interest. She had dreamed of it once, long ago, in 
another existence it seemed now. All that he said led 
her on to it ; his fresh view even of local things, but 
chiefly his reaHstic evocation of the life of European 
celebrities. Through his personal anecdotes they 
stood before her. With him she felt as if she had met 
the writers, the painters, the musicians whose names 
had become invested for her with the august dignity 
of myths. 

And when he left she felt the void of a pecuHar 
charm which went with him. He had brought and 
he withdrew with the fresh atmosphere for which she 
had been yearning, and which had revived her in a 
complete forgetfulness of her surrounding. This 
atmosphere had come through him from the world 
that she had so longed to see, it had come to her as 
if wafted from afar with the poetic quahty that dis- 
tance gathers between us and the object we look at 
or think of. 

The wish to see each other again was mutual. He 
was mainly attracted by a sense of material and 
mental gratification that he felt when near her, the 
latter arising chiefly from the good opinion which he 
knew that she must have of him. And this gratifica- 
tion was all the more pleasing that she herself had the 
fame of being very clever. Her surroundings showed 
to a great extent her good taste. In her house she 
had not adhered strictly to any one period that would 


THE PASSEE-BY 27 

have converted modern manners and clothes into 
incongruous anachronisms. She had succeeded in 
creating the clear cheerfulness of a Colonial interior, 
in which the successive periods had added whatever 
of good or comfortable they had to offer. And this 
chiefly in the flrst of the two rooms preceding the 
dining-room. It was there that she lived most herself, 
that she was to be found when at home, always sur- 
rounded by flowers, by books laying on every table — 
readable books beside being good editions affording 
a varied interest for any one who happened to be kept 
waiting. She was, perhaps, the only woman in New 
York who had no palms about her house. She had 
begun by having palms Hke everybody else, but had 
soon grown tired of their pubhc character. 

In the most formal of the two rooms in which she 
received, however, she had been unable to emancipate 
herself entirely from the current tendency. Here the 
sober elegance of Chippendale and Adams was rather 
echpsed by Louis XVI and Italian Renaissance furni- 
ture. This combination, while quiet for New York, 
gave to Lore, whose taste had been formed in the 
restrained luxury of EngHsh houses, the impression, 
although subdued, of that Oriental indulgence in 
high-keyed effects which he had thought characteristic 
of the Semitic race until he had come to America. 

But this impression was almost immediately modi- 
fied by her individuality. It happened in the same 
way that a particular inflection of tone and voice can 
modify the Hteral meaning of a sentence. She was 
far too sweet and natural to be entirely responsible 
for any deviation from a simple scheme in what was 
decorative about her. 


28 


THE PASSER-BY 

He had heard a great deal of Southern women, had 
met some in Washington, but none had justified as 
much as Mrs. Moore the charm attributed to them ; 
none had awakened his interest as much as she had. 

Women had always interested him — as mirrors in 
which he could gauge the value of his own attractions. 
But the American women whom he had met before 
coming to America had entirely misled him upon their 
fundamental character. They had been of one kind 
in London, another in Paris, yet another in Rome, but 
none of these types had he found in the United States, 
and this absence of the expected had been with rare, 
very rare, exceptions indeed, disappointing to him. 
In the United States he had come to the conclusion 
that women would rather choose the admiration of 
the many than the love of one man. By the love of 
one man he meant a certain readiness for being in- 
fatuated with him, or at any rate of fussing about him. 
This he had not found, and he missed the appreciation 
that his personahty, as expressed by all about him, 
from his clothes to his intellect, had elicited ever3rwhere 
else, and mainly in England. Since coming to America 
not once had a woman noticed how well he dressed, 
or told him with any intensity how clever he was. 
Mrs. Glendover, in Washington, had palHated his 
dreariness to some extent, but then it had been a 
consequence of her susceptibifity to his willingness for 
initiating. Hers was an uncommonly acquisitive nature 
avid for rare information, at home only beyond the 
obvious. He had understood, however, that it was 
not he who attracted her, but some of the ingredients 
which he had to offer to this subtle taste of hers. Yet 
even this had been a great deal, for, except with her. 


29 


THE PASSEE-BY 

all the points about himself on which he had been 
accustomed to count had not been appreciated, and 
he could not set himself to explaining them every time. 
Usually it would have been hopeless, as when a lady 
told him that English tailors did not know how to fit 
a man’s coat round the chest, because she saw his 
coat open one button below the top of the waistcoat — 
a fashion which he himseK with several other swells 
had started in London. What was one to say con- 
fronted with such a lack of subtlety in the understand- 
ing of the finesses of fife ? Later, of course, the 
fashion transformed into “ style ” had been imported, 
and exaggerated in America. People unbuttoned 
their coats as low as they could. 

While aware of the intrinsic triviality of this in- 
stance, it impressed him as a sign of the way in which 
standards of taste came into shape. The fine shade 
passed unperceived ; nothing less than explosions 
attracted notice. The subtlety of his own qualities 
was wasted. He knew that he was not a snob, yet 
he could not repress a smile which was really the 
outward mark of a deficate resentment every time 
that he received a letter addressed to Mr. Lore, or to 
Silvian Lore, Esq., instead of to the Honourable Silvian 
Lore. He knew that a mistake in the address would 
not have occurred had he been a duke. He knew 
that these people would never understand that as the 
Honourable Silvian Lore he counted more in Engfish 
society than some dukes. What made his distinction 
was a shade which must remain unseen by the un- 
evolved perception of most of them. 

Now, Mrs. Moore had given him the impression of 
being a lady — that was to say, a woman with a keen 


30 


THE PASSER-BY 

perception of the shades. Her attention to what he 
had said proved it. He had tried the same conversa- 
tion before with others. It was something hke an 
assortment of taste-probing samples which he had 
never before tested in America with such an imme- 
diate success. Her mental attitude pleased him. Of 
course she was attractive, tremendously attractive. 
Had she not been so he would not have unsheathed 
his assortment. Yes, he found her very charming 
with that warmth, the lack of which in others had so 
often chilled his impulse to reveal his own charms, 
and this warmth filled with a great sense of well-being 
a void which had been too long in him. 

The only thing that he regretted about her was that 
he should not have met her abroad. Out of her 
native element she would have been as malleable as 
wax. Quelle merveilleuse maitresse elle aurait ete / 
But here . . . women here did not expect to be 
made love to — society women — ^the more in view they 
were the worse it was. If they did seem to encourage 
the expression of one’s admiration, it was to lead one 
on to no serious purpose. This was the country of 
cold storage. 

Yet, in spite of this reflection as he walked to the 
club, he could not stop thinking of her. He saw her 
hair ascending from the whiteness of her neck in a 
rich coil ; he saw it shading her brow with a dark mass 
of auburn almost too heavy and too rich a darkness 
for the ethereal deficacy of her face. No, he hadn’t 
seen for a long time such a desirable woman. How 
lovely that deficate blueness circling her eyes and 
melting into the rose of her cheeks ! But what was 
the colour of her eyes ? Hazel ? Not exactly. They 


31 


THE PASSER-BY 

suggested more the idea of periwinkles, chiefly when 
she blushed, and how beautifully she blushed ! Merely 
the touch of the right word on a sensitive chord, and 
her eyes got purple dark, and her cheeks glowed with 
the passing wave that spread to the lobes of her pretty 
ears. Oh, she was a creature made to be kissed ! 
And how she would kiss if once initiated into it with 
those lips of hers ! Rather full, but red, red. . . . 

Yes, strange that violence of her bps, a note almost 
too loud, one might have said, in the delicate harmony 
offered without a break from the heavy shade of her 
hair through her Hthe figure to her arched feet. 

Yes, it was all very lovely, a httle strange, but 
perfectly useless in the home of cold storage, except 
as a source of sesthetic enjoyment. He had better 
try to think of something else. All the same, he must 
see her once more before going back to Washington. 


Ill 


S ILVIAN LORE was coming out of a box at the 
opera when he ran against a big man with a 
full beard. 

“ Hallo ! You here ? ” they exclaimed in unison. 
“ When did you come ? ” added Lore. 

“ I’ve been here three days. And how strange ! 
I was just thinking of you. I wired to you in Washing- 
ton yesterday. I saw Lord and Lady Elmhurst before 
leaving England. They told me to tell you that you 
are a perfect fraud. At least, she did — he only agreed. 
But this is luck ! I am so glad ! ” And he tapped 
Lore affectionately on the shoulder. 

“ Are you here alone to-night ? ” asked Lore. 

“No. With Lady Selden. I called on her at once, 
and she was just as nice as usual. I dined with her, 
or rather she dined and wined me. Isn’t that 
what they say here ? It was at her sister’s house, 
you know, rather a different type from Lady Selden, 
her sister I mean. They had a small party. It was 
my first glimpse of American society. Oh ! but 
there’s something else. For Heaven’s sake tell me 
who that is in mauve and paillettes without jewels 
and tiara.” 

“ On this side of the house ? ” asked Lore, motion- 
ing with his white-gloved hand. 

“ Yes.” 


32 


33 


THE PASSER-BY 

“ Mrs. Moore.” 

“ That’s the name ! And Lady Selden asked me 
to meet her at lunch on Thursday next. But since 
you know her, couldn’t you introduce me now? It 
is all right, isn’t it ? ” 

“ Quite. Come along. I was going there myseK. 
You seem in a hurry. We’d better waste no time.” 

“ She is beautiful,” exclaimed Lore’s friend as they 
went. 

The naivete of this speech amused Lore, and par- 
ticularly as he anticipated that his friend was in for a 
bad case of infatuation. He did not feel infatuated, 
himself — one must keep one’s head clear to get the' 
best in any kind of action, and he foretasted some 
flattering satisfaction out of their incipient rivalry. 
The game was certainly started with the odds in his 
own favour. 

The box was full when they got there, and a dis- 
entanghng process took place while some of the visitors 
wriggled out to let the new-comers in. 

“Let me introduce a friend of mine — Mr. Kamensky,” 
said Lore. Then Kamensky was introduced to another 
lady by Mrs. Moore, behind whose chair he took his 
place. 

His nearness to her luminous shoulders, to her 
back with its delicate moulding that changed with 
every motion of her head, of her arms ; the sweeping 
line of her neck vanishing under the sumptuousness 
of her coiled hair, the modem purity of her profile as 
she half turned her face to him, and the sflght perfume 
that floated all around her, rather unsettled him. 

Of all forms of beauty, feminine beauty troubled 
him most, because in spite of experience he could not 
c 


34 


THE PASSEE-BY 

disassociate it from an equivalent eminence of mind 
up to which he was uncertain of his abihty to live. 
He was more immediately affected by the “ genius of 
form,” as Balzac puts it, than by genius in its abstract 
sense. 

But now he found time to recover himself in the 
echoing admiration for the high C of the tenor, with 
which the previous act had closed and which still 
stirred the house. A man who had stuck to his place 
in the box stated enthusiastically that Crespi had 
never, no, never sung Hke that ! Crespi had surpassed 
himself to-night. 

The imanimous consent to this statement brought 
Kamensky down to a more normal sense of reaUty. 

In Lady Selden’s box he had followed with interest 
the effect of the “ Bomanza d’Amore ” on those around 
him. While the commonplace melody delivered with 
passion had been to him like an elaborate platitude, 
he could see that the women chiefly seemed to bask 
in the vibrations of the tenor’s voice. But the climax 
of passionate banality reached with the high C had 
carried everybody off their feet. There was some- 
thing athletic in the physical performance of it which 
had shaken the men too. Everybody had felt breath- 
less at the endurance of the breath that had kept the 
high C going. Kamensky himself had felt it with that 
uneasiness, as if something were going to snap, which 
he had experienced at the sight of a strong man in 
London Hfting one hundred times without a break a 
fifty-pound dumb-bell. The high C had sounded at 
last as if hooked in space by a supreme effort, and 
there had come to an end amidst the expected storm 
of applause. 


35 


THE PASSER-BY 

“ Last Wednesday he gave us the encore of this 
song,” said the lady whose name Kamensky had not 
caught. “ I wonder why he didn’t do it to-night.” 

“ Because he could not surpass himself, I suppose,” 
answered the man who had first spoken. 

“ Have you heard this opera before ? ” asked Mrs. 
Moore of Kamensky. 

Her question bewildered him a Httle, as it derived 
an unexpected importance from the glamour of her 
beauty. “ Yes, yes, I have ! ” and he felt as if he had 
answered somehow insufficiently. 

When he had first caught sight of her from Lady 
Selden’s box there had been in him an inner start. 
Twice he had borrowed a pair of glasses ostensibly to 
look at Mrs. Brandt-Johnson’s family pearls, at Mrs. 
Berille’s emeralds pointed out to him, and twice the 
glasses had been focussed on Mrs. Moore as soon as he 
had been able to do so discreetly. 

But he had been the more perturbed on seeing her 
better, and she had appeared to him the more in- 
accessible for drawing him overpoweringly. 

“ Don’t you think there are charming melodies 
in it ? ” 

“ Beautiful ! . . . Beautiful ! ” he answered, with a 
repressed enthusiasm. 

“ Well, Serge ! Since when ? ” 

He turned to face Lore’s puzzled and amused look, 
and, feeling rather sheepish, found no answer. 

“ Why ? ” asked Mrs. Moore looking at Lore, then 
at him, her face turned almost completely, her back 
twisted in an unimagined novelty of beauty. 

He met her eyes as if he were going to explain, then 
under their interrogative gaze he faltered, stammering : 


36 


THE PASSEE-BY 

“ But, yes . . . charming melodies, light. . . She 
looked at him as he spoke, the candour vanishing out 
of her eyes, inquisitive now with a gleam of mischief 
repeated on her lips too red and full, that kept a smile 
in suspense. 

Lore broke out laughing. “ Oh, delightful ! ‘ charm- 
ing melodies, light ! ’ Don’t you believe him, Mrs. 
Moore ! Look out, he is an awfully subtle flatterer ! ” 

She blushed, stung for having been caught ventur- 
ing conventionalities at random, and she said : “ Oh, 
you are hke Mr. Lore, very difficult to please about 
music.” 

“ He is worse,” corrected Lore. 

Kamensky defended himself with deprecating ges- 
tures, distressed at the idea that she would think him 
deceitful. “ Beauty is of many kinds,” he said, and 
he insisted that he found charming melodies in this 
opera. 

“ Do you know what is going to happen in the next 
act ? ” asked the other lady, of Lore. Then Lore 
proceeded to explain the plot of the libretto. 

That’s it, thought Kamensky, the story ! The 
lady who had asked for it aggravated him. He was 
sure that she had a commonplace mind. 

Mrs. Moore, too, wished to hear the explanation of 
the plot. It interested her to know what they were 
going to sing about, chiefly when they got excited. 
Sometimes she thought that they were angry, whereas 
perhaps they were expressing deep feelings of love. 
It was singular how music could mislead one if one 
did not know what it was all about. But she had the 
sensation of being watched by Lore’s friend, who had 
already caught her in a superficial musical apprecia- 


THE PASSEE-BY 37 

tion, and she did not feel at ease. She knew what good 
music was and enjoyed it, but she could also enjoy a 
cheaper kind emphasizing the romance of a love 
story. Cheap music and a second-rate love story 
mixed together may have resulted in a questionable 
form of art ; she was quite aware of it, but still she 
enjoyed that too. Yet she wouldn’t have hked to 
let Kamensky guess as much. He was probably a 
real musician, he rather looked as if he were. So she 
asked him what he thought of the opera house, how it 
compared with Covent Garden, in order to make him 
talk while she listened to Lore’s explanation. 

He found this house much more brilliant than 
Covent Garden ... he said, here the audience itself 
was as spectacular as the most gorgeous scenes on the 
stage. The boxes protruding brilliantly lighted, and 
then . . . 

As he went on talking he looked out beyond at the 
first and second tiers outlining her head and her figure 
with a dazzhng background. Row upon row sparkled 
and shimmered with bare shoulders and arms, with 
jewels, silks, and satins embroidered in gold and 
silver. 

After wondering within himself why the richness of 
it all did not rise to sumptuousness, he conjectured 
that our times must be responsible for the lack of that 
sedateness which in the past, or in countries still steeped 
in it, fashioned women conscious of their rank into an 
attitude similar to the attitude of idols for whom the 
adornment was merely a sign of their state, and not 
an exhibition of jewelry hard to live up to. 

But as his attention strayed from her background 
to focus itself on her again, an inward quiver, as if he 


38 


THE PASSEK-BY 

had been touched by a Uve wire, made him realize 
the specious quahty, the inanity of his argument. 

Then again he looked away, wishing to dispel too 
vexing a perturbation, and he fastened his attention 
on a woman in the second tier. It seemed to him that 
he might derive a coohng effect from her bejewelled 
appearance. One might have expected to see her 
bust begin to revolve slowly on a pivot. 

“ Why do all operas end sadly ? ” said the lady to 
whom Lore had just finished telling the plot of the 
hbretto. “ If I could write an opera, I would have 
the tenor and the prima donna eloping happily in 
an automobile at the end,” and she chuckled. “ Now, 
will you teU me please who is that woman with Mrs. 
Dorade ? ” 

“ The Marquise de Chare,” answered Mrs. Moore. 

“ Is that she ? . . . The little Miss Galloway of 
St. Louis ! What is she rmlly divorcing for ? ” 

“ No one seems to know.” 

“ They disagree by mutual agreement,” explained 
Lore. 

“ I like her coronet. I wonder where she got it — 
Cartier ? I must have one fike it.” 

“ Who is the lady in that box ? ” asked Kamensky, 
indicating the woman who had specially attracted his 
notice in the second tier. 

Mrs. Moore’s friend stared at him stonily for a 
second, and no one answered. The look and the 
silence withered him. He understood that he had 
asked some absurd question. The lady in the second 
tier must be some extremely improper person. He 
wished that he had delayed meeting Mrs. Moore and 
avoided this deplorable blunder in her presence. 


THE PASSEE-BY 39 

One, then two visitors came in. He had to efface 
himself to let the new-comers approach Mrs. Moore. 

Lore got up too, and the next moment they were 
out. 

“ I’m afraid I’ve made an awful blunder,” he said 
to Lore, as they strolled away in the corridor, “ asking 
about that lady, you know, in the second tier. Is 
she a notoriously shady person ? ” 

“ No ! ” Lore laughed. “ What’s put it into your 
head ? ” 

“ Well . . . the way that the lady in Mrs. Moore’s 
box looked at me ... no one answered, as if one 
shouldn’t take notice of her.” 

Again Lore laughed. “ You don’t know New York 
yet ! People that one knows are only in the stalls, or 
the parterre. The others simply don’t exist. Some 
go up there to hear the opera without being bothered 
with society, others to shine as well as they can. But 
they may well look at the first tier, know by sight and 
by name every one in every box, yearn and long to 
get there or to be noticed from there, dress as well, 
put on as many jewels as anybody in the supreme 
sphere — they will never be noticed, they will never 
get there.” 

“ Oh, it’s not so bad then,” sighed Kamensky with 
relief. “It is a blunder all the same, but still . . . 
Is there a Mr. Moore ? ” 

“ Rather ! ” 

“ What sort is he ? ” 

“ A kind of a myth as far as I am concerned.” 

“ How strange ! She always goes about or receives 
without him ? I wonder what sort of c- man he is. . . .” 

“ With him she goes out to big dull dinners, or gives 


40 


THE PASSEK-BY 

big dull dinners. He is a t3^ical American of a kind, 
from what I hear.” 

“ What kind ? What does he do ? ” 

“ You are inquisitive ! He was a pohtician, now 
he’s gone in frankly for business in Wall Street. He’s 
something hke an uncut stone, I suppose — sound but 
rough, ruse mais sans finesse.'*'* 

“ ‘ Sans finesse ? ’ Ah, but that is terrible ! With 
a woman hke that, think of it ! . . . What a wonderful 
woman. ... A perverse harmony dreadfully seduc- 
tive. What an enticing candour in her eyes ! And 
then that mouth ! Those lips of hers ! Kisses 
blossomed into flowers. . . .” 

“ ‘ Ejsses blossomed into flowers ’ is good. She 
inspires you.” 

“ Oh yes ! I admit it. She inspires me, she 
puzzles me. Don’t you admire her yourself ? Near 
her one ought to become a superman.” 

“ Yes. She is a lady.” 

“ Where can one smoke a cigarette ? ” 

And as Lore led him to the lobby saying : “ An 
awful hole, full of vulgar people between acts. But 
still, if you must smoke.” 

Kamensky wondered at his friend’s imperturb- 
ability at the charms of Mrs. Moore. “ A lady ! ” 
— that was all she was to him. . . . 

In spite of its being “ a dreadful hole,” Lore too 
lighted a cigarette. He was glad to be with his friend 
whom he had not seen for a long time. Then Kamensky 
had such a way of his own of seeing things. He was 
stimulating. Lore had found his own originahty 
growing brighter every time that he had been with his 
friend. 


THE PASSER-BY 41 

“ Do I look much older than when you saw me last ?” 
asked Kamensky. 

“No. Why?” 

“ Nothing . . . nothing. . . .” And Kamensky, 
throwing back his head, blew a cloud of smoke into 
the air. “ Well, how long is it . . . three, four 
years ? ” 

“Yes — about four I should say. Why? Do you 
feel older ? ” 

“ No ! Just the reverse ! That’s where the tragedy 
comes in.” 

“ What tragedy ? ” 

“ Oh, I am just speaking in the abstract. The 
tragedy of feehng young and looking old. It makes 
one afraid of being repulsive and ridiculous ... if one 
has any aesthetic sense — speaking generally, I mean. 
Don’t you think so ? ” 

“ I’ve never thought of it.” 

“ Of course not. Your time hasn’t come yet.” 

“ To think ? ” 

“ Of that.” 

“ It wiU never do to think of that. Those who 
think never act. . . .” 

“ And those who act are not generally thinkers,” 
interrupted Kamensky. “ I told you that.” 

Lore looked at him with genuine surprise. “ Did 
you ? I had certainly forgotten it. We do think 
so much alike sometimes.” 

Kamensky had an inward chuckle, then he said : 
“ I can’t make women out.” 

“ Few men can.” 

“ Of course that was a platitude. What I meant 
more particularly was their wonderful art in setting 


42 


THE PASSEE-BY 

off their beauty, in dazzling us with their beauty. 
They seem to wish to encourage our . . . our . . . our 
admiration so much further than they will appear to 
admit if we take the encouragement too seriously.” 

“ Do you still speak in a general way ? ” 
f “ Of course ! I hate personahties. You may think 
of some woman in particular, no doubt, and then 
you’ll see the sphinx that is in all of them. Then she 
becomes the chief exponent of the eternal mystery 
which attracts us to them.” 

“ I wasn’t thinking of any woman in particular. 
It’s you who made me think of how admirably low her 
dress is cut.” 

“Well, I didn’t mean to,” lied Kamensky, suddenly 
aware of an offended sense of reverent loyalty spring- 
ing up full-armed in her defence. 


IV 


W HO is that Russian friend of yours, you brought 
in at the Opera last night ? ” Mrs. Moore was 
asking Lore, who had dropped in late for tea. 

“ Oh, weVe known each other for a long time ! He 
has hved in England off and on for years. He used to 
be in the diplomatic service, but he’s dropped out of 
it long ago. He wanted a less academic field for his 
energies — ^to do good in, I mean. But you’ve made a 
tremendous impression on him. He says you are the 
most perfect woman he’s ever seen. I wish you’d 
heard him ! ... Of course, that’s nothing new to 
you.” 

She smiled, as if what he had said was not to be 
taken seriously ... all the more so that the last 
sentence, his own added homage, the one that might 
have had a value to her, had come after an almost 
imperceptible, yet detected, pause, squeezed out 
merely by a sense of fitness on his part, all his spon- 
taneity used up, as it were, on his wonder at the im- 
pression that she had made on his friend. 

“ What did he come over for ? ” she heard herself 
asking, while aware of a vague disappointment spread- 
ing like the shiver of a chill. 

“ He is here to study the American prison system. 
He is sent by his Government. . . .” 

“ A rather dismal occupation. . . .” 

43 


44 


THE PASSEE-BY 

“ Yes. Yes, no doubt,” he smiled. “ But he 
seems to take it as an opportunity to improve the 
future fate of Russian prisoners. You know, they are 
building new prisons in Russia to make up for the 
deportation to Siberia, which is gradually going to be 
abohshed.” 

She gazed at him indolently, while her disappoint- 
ment defined itself out of vagueness, verged on vexa- 
tion. It was rather out of idle curiosity that she had 
asked who Kamensky was, and not because she found 
him so engrossing as to wish to centre on him the 
interest of their conversation. To her he was a casual 
figure that two words would have been sufficient to 
dispose of, and that Lore’s proHx eulogies now con- 
verted into a superfluous intrusion. Was it to talk 
of Russian prisons that she had waited for Lore ? 
Now only did she clearly perceive that she had been 
waiting for him alone. Some people she had thought 
mixed well, while others were better seen alone. 
With an unconscious cavilhng, however, she had 
ignored the fact that “ others ” applied exclusively to 
Lore. 

“ Ah ! I thought he might have been a musician. . .” 
and the indolence of her gaze still veiled her vexation at 
the situation which began to strike her as absurd. 

“ He is that too,” persisted Lore. “ He is a born 
artist. I’ve seen him do charming sketches. But 
then, from what he told me, it seems that, given the 
present conditions of his country, he has given it up — 
art I mean — as a rather frivolous self-indulgence. He 
says that art is a flower which blossoms according to 
the ground on which it grows. He is giving himself 
up to the preparation of the ground, choosing his share 


45 


THE PASSEE-BY 

rather far from the point too. Don’t you think so ? ” 
And on her merely smiHng, he went on : “ He is too 
modest, far too modest, that’s what I think, consider- 
ing his quahties — I think you would like him. May 
I bring him to see you ? He is simply dying to see you. 
By the way, are you not lunching at Lady Selden’s 
on Thursday ? He’s been asked to meet you.” 

“ Yes, I am, and I shall be glad to meet him ! In- 
deed I shall ! ” Her voice had a peculiar ring. A 
ring almost of challenge that he had not even sus- 
X)ected her capable of, while her pupils dilated, corus- 
cating in their dark depths. 

The change took him by surprise, with a shock. He 
saw a woman that he had not known yet. It was 
like awakening with a start to the reahzation of a 
pitfall on the brink of which he had sauntered. He 
reahzed how much further than he had imagined 
extended the limits of his privileges. To plead as 
he had for the admission of another man’s extravagant 
admiration meant either a fatuous assurance of his 
own position or his indifference to it. Being spoiled 
by women had not made him blase, but, on the con- 
trary, greatly dependent on their sympathy, developed 
through all the successive degrees of intensity that it 
was susceptible of into a nest of exquisite intimacy 
which he had not failed to build for his subtler com- 
forts wherever his wanderings had paused. And here 
he had stumbled on such a nest ready-made and had 
not seen it until almost on the point of crushing it. 
In this realization he remained mute, inwardly para- 
lyzed; any move might have been dangerous. He 
must regulate his by hers, and he looked at her in the 
dark depths of her pupils with an earnest intensity, 


46 


THE PASSER-BY 

indulging with the expression of his eyes in what his 
lips could not have dared to say. As if what he had 
said had just been for the form, an imposed propriety 
remote from his true thought. This mutual sounding 
lasted but an instant, then she spoke : 

“ Have you seen Mrs. Glendover to-day ? ” 

“ No, I haven’t been able. I know she would have 
been in . . . now . . . about this time. Of course, 
I should have liked to see her. She leaves for 
Washington to-morrow morning, I think. Doesn’t 
she ? But then ... I thought you might be in too.” 

“ That was nice of you. But you’ll make up for 
it in Washington.” 

He smiled mischievously, as if amused. “ I am not 
going to be much in Washington now.” 

“ But what about your work at the Embassy ? ” 

“ Oh, an awful bore ! But I am only an ‘ honorary,’ 
you know. I’ll juggle through it once a week instead 
of pottering at it every blessed day.” 

“ Is that all ? Diplomacy sounds so great.” 

“ The uniform is rather smart.” 

She laughed. “ Do you take everything as lightly ?” 

“No. Oh no ! Some things I take very seriously. 
The kind of things that most people call frivolous 
with such amusing hypocrisy. The kind of things 
that make one glad to be ahve. I am just simply 
honest. I do my best to be sincere with myself, which 
is better than to be sincere with others. At least, the 
former includes the latter. It’s simply beginning at 
the right end.” 

“ To take frivolous things seriously ? ” 

“ No, to acknowledge frankly the share they have 
in our hves. Well . . . take for instance, the fa9on 


THE PASSEE-BY 47 

of a pretty frock, its shade. They have changed many 
a man’s course in hfe.” 

“ I see. The modiste as an arbiter of human des- 
tinies,” she mused. 

“ Oh ! Not that ! No, the wearers of pretty 
frocks. Do you know that they are all like Japanese 
women who wear on their kimonos the painted emblems 
of their condition, of their character, of their aspira- 
tions. No one but you could wear this frock.” 

“ It’s a very simple gown,” she said, looking down 
at herself. 

“ Just so. That’s why. ... It is very beautiful 
in its simplicity too. If I saw it anywhere it couldn’t 
evoke any image but yours. What a pity women 
have to change fashions so continually ! It seems 
impossible that you should keep on revealing yourself 
indefinitely, as you are doing now, for instance.’^ 

“ I didn’t know I was giving myself away. ...” 

“ I wish you were ! ” 

“ I think I’ll give you some tea instead. There, 
now, help yourself . . . sugar ? cream ? lemon ? or 
. . . would you care for a whisky and soda instead ? ” 

“ No thanks ! I haven’t become American enough 
for that.” 

“ I thought whisky and soda had come to us from 
England ! ” 

“ Like the Italian gardens ? No. We take it at 
meals, and after dinner. Scarcely ever during the 
day. They’ve gone us one better here. They start 
in the afternoon, and often even in the early morning.” 

“ I know. Isn’t it dreadful ? It’s one of the manly 
things I hate. I am afraid we overdo things in this 
country.” 


48 


THE PASSEE-BY 


“ Well . . . you try to improve on others.” 

“ H’m ! . . . I wonder how you mean it. You 
diplomats know so well how to gild pills: Personally 
I am afraid that le mieux est Vennemi du bien. Very 
often I think le bien good enough for me.” 

He laughed. “ Oh ! How charming you are ! 
. . . But then, if you think that they overdo it in the 
wrong way here, you ought to derive a satisfaction 
from the fact that you are a beautifully redeeming 
note in your surroundings.” 

“ Do you really think so ? ” Ingenuous surprise 
was in her voice. Then she flushed. From the 
dehcate blue shade that circled her eyes a warm wave 
flowed over her cheeks to the lobes of her ears. 

He enjoyed the sight. What a marvellous re- 
sponsiveness to the shghtest touch ! He had the key 
to the secret harp. 

“ How silly ! ” she murmured, and he did not know 
whether she referred to the naivete of her question, or 
to her blushing. To both probably. But he watched 
the beauty of her trouble now, and silently enjoyed 
the vision. Again a new being, all the elemental in 
her come to the surface, she appeared no more as a 
society woman, but like some primeval woodland 
creature caught bending over a crystaUine pool in 
self -admiration. 

“ Well ? ” . . . she said, her composure regained. 

“ Well ? ... Is it a penny for my thoughts ? I 
was trying to And the expression of an impression, and 
I had foimd it. I was thinking that your Hps seemed 
kisses blossomed into flowers.” 

This time it was confusion that went to her head, 
colouring her face at the audacity with which she had 


49 


THE PASSER-BY 

been struck. The shock went tinghng through her, 
taking possession of her, frightening her at herself. 
She examined the words in eager distress. Actually 
they conveyed nothing but an unseizable charm. 
She rallied, reheved, as if brightened now by the 
tinghng that persisted. “You say charming things 
which ought to make up for my being silly. You 
foreign men always think that a superficial . . . that 
agreeable superficialities in women will make up for 
anything.” 

“ Now ! . . . You do yourself and myseK injustice ! 
You are unhke women as I am conceited enough to 
think myself unlike men — both of the kind you were 
alluding to : everyday women, everyday men.” 

“ Superman then ? ” 

“ Why not ? You can’t very well make of others 
what you wish to think of them. But we can make 
of ourselves what we Hke to think of ourselves.” 

“ Do you work very hard ? ” 

“ At what ? ” 

“ At perfecting yourself.” 

He laughed. “ I think myself quite perfect enough 
when I am near you — as now, for instance. I can’t 
conceive of any more perfect state. However, I shall 
work hard if you wish me to.” 

“ You may ... in Washington.” 

“ Oh, cela va sans dire ! I’ll condense two days 
into twenty-four hours on a stretch.” Dropping all 
suggestion of banter, he added : “ D’you really Hke 
me to work hard in Washington ? ” 

She looked at him very straight and said, “ Yes.” 

He did not answer at once, he just gazed into her 
eyes. It seemed to him that for the present no words 


D 


50 


THE PASSEE-BY 


could venture as far as he ventured with his steady 
gaze meeting hers. He also wondered at the extent 
of her unuttered meaning. It seemed a provocation, 
yet had he taken it in that way she might have pre- 
tended to be offended. Not to miss — he mustn’t 
miss — and not to exceed — ^he mustn’t exceed — that 
was the difficult point. 

At last she spoke, saying again : “ Well ? ” 

“Well . . . I am wondering.” Their looks re- 
sumed a more normal signification. 

“ At what ? ” 

“ At the sphinx.” 

“ Who is the sphinx ? ” 

“ You.” 

“I? How?” 

“ How ? There you are with every appearance of 
innocence ignoring the effect of every art with which 
you glamour us with your beauty. You seem to 
encourage us so much further than you will admit if 
we should take the encouragement seriously.” 

He saw her blushing again. This time she withdrew 
her gaze from him and lowered it on the flounce of the 
cushion that she was fingering. 

“ I think,” she said, in a subdued voice, “ that in 
many ways we are sphinxes to ourselves.” 

He watched her hand. It suggested her perfume 
with its dehcately chiselled fingers ending in glistening, 
pointed nails. 

“ Don’t you think so ? ” and now she looked at 
him directly, but with nothing beyond the obvious 
in her eyea 


V 


M rs. MOORE had been giving a small dinner- 
party, and all her guests had left except Lore 
and a M. Darrat, a French painter just arrived in 
New York. He was the very last painter arrived, his 
face looked new, his painting smelled new, the tea 
that he offered at his studio tasted new. Everybody 
made for him, submerged him with orders. 

Mrs. Moore had asked him because she had heard 
that he sang really well some charming new songs, 
and he had sung that evening in a mood of true in- 
spiration Foret’s “ Clair de Lune,” and de Bussy’s 
“ Chansons de Bihtis.” But then it was because 
“ se sent tellement chez sois dans cette charmante 
maison,^'^ as he had said. This he was proving now 
by not going away when it was already eleven o’clock, 
and when Mrs. Moore would have Hked to leave for 
the ball at the Dorade’s. She wished to leave par- 
ticularly because she knew that Fred would be coming 
in at any moment, and she felt a vague disinclination 
to introduce Lore to Fred just as she was going out of 
the house with Lore. 

Ill at ease, she could only pretend to be interested 
in what Darrat was telHng with a truly GalHc verve, 
and she was only attentively watching for the pause, 
the approach to a conclusion which would give her the 
opportunity of assuming that he had finished for good 

51 


52 


THE PASSEE-BY 

and that he was going to leave. The right sort of 
silence on her and Lore’s part would have made him 
aware of it, and then she would have hurried away 
with Lore. 

But Darrat was in good form, his acute observa- 
tions, his illustrative anecdotes followed one another 
without a break, and while she smiled at his wit with- 
out enjoying it, she foresaw the way that Fred would 
look and the way in which he would put questions to her 
afterward, abruptly, about Lore, in a conversation 
totally alien to him. Of course, it had been stupid 
of her not to have said anything to Fred about Lore 
before now. But then she had felt all the time that 
he would take exception to Lore in some narrow- 
minded sort of a way, making her feel self-conscious 
and embarrassed about it. He often succeeded in 
making her feel guilty when there was absolutely no 
reason for it. Why did he treat her like that if he 
trusted her ? Because she was his property ? And 
so that she should never feel Hke being herself, but only 
a reflection of him ? Of course, he would resent her 
innocent intimacy with Lore. He had such a pre- 
judice against foreigners ! Chiefly against those who 
seemed to lay stress on all the deHcate shades of 
culture, of manners. She knew by intuition that the 
very cut of Lore’s clothes would grate on him. Lore 
was the type of gentleman to which he would object. 
He would call him a dawdler with a derisive intonation 
in his voice. 

She got up. This last thought had sharpened too 
unpleasantly her uncomfortable feehng. The two men 
rose also. 

“ AlUz vous aussi au hal de Madame Dorade ? ” She 


THE PASSEE-BY 53 

asked Darrat for the form. And to her surprise he 
said : “ Mais oui, certainement fy vais ! ” 

She hesitated a moment, then offered him a lift in 
her carriage. For an instant she hoped desperately 
that he would not accept. But he accepted. Then 
she disliked him for having caused her to hope what 
she should not have hoped. 

They were in the hall, the men with gestures of 
marionettes being helped into their overcoats, she 
being wrapped up by her maid. Then a biting draught 
blew in from the front door held open, and as she was 
going toward it she saw Fred coming up the steps, so 
she waited inside, glad now that Darrat was there too. 

“ Won’t you come to the ball ? ” she asked, to say 
something, and she was going to introduce her guests. 
But he brushed past, merely sa3dng : “No thanks. 
I’ve got to work,” and without paying more attention 
to her or to the two men standing near her he dis- 
appeared. His gratuitous rudeness mortified and 
startled her at the same time. She picked up the 
train of her gown and went to her carriage. 

As the servant helped Moore out of his overcoat, he 
asked if his secretary had brought any papers. 

“ Yes, sir, he’s left them in the study.” 

Casually he asked one more question : “ Who were 
the two gentlemen ? ” 

“ Mr. Lore and Mr. Darrat, sir.” 

He went to his den, where he often worked after 
dinner. The papers were there on the writing-desk, 
sure enough, in two large business envelopes. He sat 
down. He had tasted intimate and deep satisfaction 
in the secretive silence of his den. The most fruitful 
conceptions had come to him here in the silence of the 


54 


THE PASSER-BY 


night with that rare security from being rung up on 
the ’phone, or interrupted by importunate calls. His 
telephone here was a private one. From the moment 
that he left the club, when he dined there, his mental 
attitude prepared itself for the laborious atmosphere 
of the den, where an old coat carefully laid on an arm- 
chair awaited him to complete by an outward comfort 
his inner mood. But this time the old coat laid un- 
appreciated on his back while he examined the papers 
drawn out of their envelopes. Yes, he saw very well 
what it was all about, but he felt no zest, no concentra- 
tion of thought. He put them down rather brusquely : 
“ It’s all damn rot. . . . That’s what it is ! ” and he 
had to get up. 

So this was Mr. Lore ! Then immediately he won- 
dered which of the two men Mr. Lore was. Why had 
she never said a word about this new visitor who had 
been coming to the house for the last fortnight ? It 
was a month surely since he had noticed a new hat 
in the hall one afternoon and then heard from the 
servant that the visitor was Mr. Lore. Why the devil 
hadn’t she said a word about him ? ... It was too 
anno3dng to see her getting mixed up with that kind 
of people. It was annoying to see the way this kind 
of people got in ever3rwhere they could pick up some- 
thing without working for it. Good God ! . . . 
“ Gentlemen,” they called themselves, but if they 
were not even men ? . . . They didn’t come to tackle 
sound work ; no . . . always trailing after women’s 
skirts. . . . And the damn shrewdness of the beggars ! 
One thought one had one’s eyes on the lot. Not a 
bit of it ! Up shot an outsider like a jack-in-the-box, 
grabbed girl and dollars, and was off with both. No 


THE PASSER-BY 55 

use trying to keep track of them. . . . You could no 
more see them at work than you’d see a wild rabbit 
squatting right under your nose. . . . Thank God he 
had no daughter to marry off ! 

He went to the tray, helped himself to a stiff high- 
ball, coughed, then bit a long cigar. 

“ What is this ‘ gentleman ’ after ? . . . His proper 
place is in Washington. . . . He’s got his work right 
there. ... It shows you what a gentleman’s work 
amounts to. . . . By Jingo, if that’s what they call a 
gentleman. I’ll be damned if I’ll be one ! . . . What 
the devil is he buzzing around here for ? . . . She 
ought to know better . . . really she ought ! . . . 
She ought to know the way she makes me look foohsh 
by looking foohsh herself. . . . He knows how to 
talk, does he ? Next thing Town Gossip wiU know 
how to talk too ! Damnably foolish of her ! I’ll ask 
her what he talks about, and I’U bet my last red cent 
she wouldn’t be able to repeat a sound thought out of 
all his babbhng. Can’t she be contented with all 
she’s got without picking up all these . . . these 
foreigners ? . . . They say over there we spoil women 
here, and, by God, I guess they’re right ! Spoiled, 
spoiled, spoiled, that’s what’s the matter with all of 
them ! Go and marry a country-girl because she’U 
know how to make a home for you, and because she’ll 
be quiet and make your life nice and easy — ^yes ! 
She’ll be worse than the others . . . well, she couldn’t 
be that. . . . She’ll be no worse than the others. 
She’ll make a home for Dagoes and Dutchmen. Much 
do I get of a home life ! If she’s got to see me, it’s 
sighs and nerves, and not being ‘ understood ! ’ Of 
course, she’s got to be buttered thick, then she’s 


56 


THE PASSER-BY 

‘ understood.’ Mighty easy to understand a woman 
for anybody who hasn’t got to live with her. Ough ! 
It makes me tired ! ” 

He settled in his chair again. But he could not 
get away from what irritated him. There he was, 
slaving away to make money, giving her all she wanted 
without stint, and in return she could not even exempt 
him from the annoyance of having objectionable 
people about the house. . . . She deserved to have 
married a foreigner, then she would have appreciated 
a clean-minded American ! It was his own fault 
though. . . . He ought to have drawn the Hne at 
these Bohemian parties. . . . There was the crack 
through which they all got in. . . . This Mr. Lore and the 
rest of them. . . . The Honorable Silvian Lore, damn 
him ! They talked of books, the worse the better. 
Clean American hterature wasn’t good enough. God 
knows the stuff she read in those French novels ! And 
what was there to talk about a book ? . . . 

This thought rankled with a special power of irrita- 
tion in his practical mind. He understood that one 
might read a novel for the sake of relaxation. But 
that one should concentrate the most active part of 
one’s mind on rotten foreign literature and talk 
about it, and discuss it as if it had been a real event, 
this surpassed his comprehension. And that was the 
kind of stuff that an Honorable Mr. Lore was great at 
prattling about. . . . With him it was nothing but a 
wedge. At the club he had heard of this Mr. Lore. 
One of these foreigners who found favour with women. 
. . . An overrated cuss whose business it was to be 
always running after women. He had been running 
after Mrs. Glendover in Washington, and now he had 


THE PASSEE-BY 57 

changed his seat of operations. Now — it was clear 
who he was after now. 

For the first time in his life there came over him a 
sense of discouragement. After an uninterrupted pros- 
perity, the difficulties and the delays about this loan, 
his only safety now, had seemed to bring fife under a 
different aspect before him. For the first time his 
power had been failing to tell with the efficacy to 
which he had been accustomed. For the first time 
his self-assurance was shaken, and now when he had 
less and less liberty to look after her, now he needed 
strangely the warmth of a sense of security at least in 
his home. 

Somehow, as he had seen her saihng out of the hall 
with the two men after her, he had been struck by the 
lucid measure of her indifference toward him, even 
worse than that, of the alienation which had been 
growing between them. She had been living her own 
fife, diverging further and further from his. She had 
been drifting from him, from the circle of his own 
friends, and now even the whole of society was not 
enough for her, now when he needed a spot where he 
could rest confidently he had entered his own house as 
into a house open to the winds, through which people 
came and went, people that he did not even know, who 
made themselves at home in it, while he crawled to his 
den and there slaved, ignored. Good God ! she might 
have had some consideration ! . . . 

When he thought of what she used to be. ... Of 
course, that was nonsense. She couldn’t expect him 
to carry on for ever the tomfooleries of the honeymoon. 
He had his work. There was a time for ever3dhing. 
But that she had never understood. He remembered 


58 


THE PASSEE-BY 

one morning long, long ago, when he happened to be 
late going to his office, and she had stopped him to 
ask him : “ Do you love me ? ” and how she had 
sulked for two days because he had answered in a 
hurry that he would teU her later, after the market 
had closed. She knew that he loved her ! Why keep 
on repeating it ? But no, words were what she wanted. 
To all that he did, to his strenuous work from which 
she derived all her enjoyment, she was bhnd. 

Words, words ... a wind-bag, a Mr. Lore — that 
was what she liked ! 

Again he saw her sailing out of the hall with the 
two men after her, one of them looking hke an Arab, 
with a wiry black beard, thin, angular, and square 
about the shoulders, the other polished and smooth 
from head to foot, handsome in a way, but offensively 
so. He must be the wind-bag, curse him ! And at 
the idea of her liking such a man, of her being capti- 
vated by his hollow attractions, a rancorous hostihty 
surged in him against her. 

He would have to talk to her. . . . But not argue. 
... As intricate as a business proposition might be, 
it had always some steady points that nothing could 
alter. But the moment one began to argue with a 
woman the point of a fact became as unsteady as the 
shades of shot silk. And then if he argued with her 
she might fancy that he was jealous. She might 
think that he considered himself on the same level with 
that cuss ! 

With a determined bang of his palm he flattened 
down a paper that insisted on folding over where it had 
been creased in the envelope. 

“ Enough damn nonsense ! ” He spoke aloud, and 


59 


THE PASSEE-BY 

then he strained to concentrate his mind on the paper 
laying under his eyes. After a while his interest was 
caught by a sudden idea. Had they been getting in- 
side information from his office ? . . . 

At half-past three o’clock the door of the den was 
pushed open. He glanced back ; she was standing 
on the threshold. With his thought suddenly devis- 
ing a cross-examination he asked casually : “ Had a 
good time, Angela ? ” 

The phrase was stereotyped. It had lost its mean- 
ing. Instead of answering, she in her turn asked : 
“ Why are you working so late ? Do you know it’s 
almost four o’clock ? ” 

“ That’s all right.” 

His back timned to her, his eyes fixed on some 
papers, he pondered on how to broach the subject of 
Lore in the best way. “Was your dinner of to-night 
a success ? Any new scalps ? ” 

“No, the usual set,” she said, after hesitating an 
instant. She felt too tired to think clearly what to 
say concerning Lore. 

“ The usual set . . .’’he mumbled, but he controlled 
his resentment. So she wouldn’t even take this easy 
chance of telling him about Lore. 

She sat down on the arm of a big chair, a vague un- 
easiness, something hke depression and regret stirring 
within her. It was not that she actually felt like 
regretting anything that she might have reproached 
herself with, it was more hke a sense of pity for both 
of them. She watched him ; then she felt suddenly 
the inanity of their union. He seemed so far from 
her. He asked these questions just out of habit, for 
the form. Her intimate fife, her intimate thoughts. 


60 


THE PASSEE-BY 

her aspirations were non-existing to him. Had she 
confided in him she would simply have bored him. He 
had never let her confide in him. He had never needed 
the bond of confidence between them. He had never 
felt hke confiding either. Of his fife, of his activity, 
of all that made his fife what did she know ? In his 
strength he had never known the need of sympathy. 
He treated her Hke an infant that must merely be 
watched. And on this he rested confidently ; she was 
his property, anyhow, and with his back turned he did 
not see the void between them. He always had his 
back turned, and it was just this attitude now that 
struck her with an undefinable sense of pathos — a 
pathos extending in proportion with the powerful size 
of his back. 

From out the duUing lethargy of habit something 
Hke an impulse drew her to him, to take his hand, as 
if by so doing she might have shaken a kindred im- 
pulse out of him. But habit with its unyielding 
meshes held her where she sat, and after a subdued 
struggle she asked aU that she could : “ How was the 
market to-day ? ” 

Again he glanced round at her as if he had forgotten 
her presence. But this time her presence held his 
attention. 

Half sitting on the arm of the chair, leaning against 
its back, aU of her looked the beauty of languor. In 
her face, somewhat paled, her eyes were enlarged by 
the deepened shade of blueness that circled them. 
Her fur cloak sHpping to one side had caught the tulle 
sleeve of her gown puUing it off her shoulder. 

She was exhausted by having enjoyed herself too 
much at the ball, he thought, bitten strangely by a 


THE PASSEE-BY 


61 


complex feeling at the sight of her gown slipping off 
her shoulder. She appeared to him as if she was 
offering herself insidiously in the alluring abandon- 
ment of her languor, and desire gleamed through his 
resentment. He repressed it, conscious of some kind 
of indignity in weakening and faUing under the spell of 
her charm at this moment when he meant to define 
clearly the extent of his slighted authority. But 
almost at once in fixing his eyes on her shoulder, 
suggestively bared, he refrained from mentioning 
Lore, to whom she might have appeared as she ap- 
peared now to him. In his present agitation he 
wouldn’t have been able to speak of Lore with the 
calmness that carried efficacy and dignity. 

“ The market ? ” he repeated, tense with repressed 
violence. “ Angela ! Your question is fooHsh ! Do 
you know that ? What do you care about the market? 
Why do you ask me such a question ? Since when 
have you taken an interest in the market ? Why ? 
Why do you ask me, I should Hke to know ! ” 

“ How rude you are ! Because I wanted to take an 
interest in your affairs ! ” 

Tears were in her indignation, and she was up, her 
fur cloak drawn back in place, her cheeks aglow, 
facing intrepidly the ghtter of his eye-glasses. They 
seemed to chuckle a discreet chuckle all to themselves. 
Then she turned around and ghded out of the room 
looking very dignified, but feefing crushed. 

Had he made a mistake ? Had he hurt her feelings ? 
Well, he didn’t care if he had ! At any rate it was 
beyond him to admit it to her now. By admitting 
it to her he would have made a concession lessening 
that authority which it was his duty to enforce. 


VI 


I N his room at the Waldorf, Serge Kamensky was 
reading over some notes on electrocution. He 
was sitting in a comfortable chair and running his 
fingers through his beard with an automatic motion 
that helped the concentration of his thought. Seen 
thus against the window he looked handsome, and even 
stately. 

He was far from being conceited about his looks, 
but he had sometimes been conscious of them, and from 
this consciousness had derived a certain dignity such 
as, he thought, the recipiency of lighter favours be- 
stowed by Fate ought to instil no less than its heavy 
attentions. And it was in conformity with this 
deferential attitude toward the designs of Fate that 
he did not tamper with his beard. On this point he 
held the opinion that the idle fancifulness displayed 
in the variety of hairy patterns upon men’s faces 
nowadays manifested a frivolous aberration of taste. 
The primitive heroes swore by their beards, in which 
they saw a supreme symbol of virile dignity. Among 
the Greeks, the beardless youth was looked upon as 
not differing sufficiently by far from a girl. And the 
ancient Patriarchs, whose majesty had lasted un- 
dimmed to our days, would probably have lessened it, 
had they worn moustaches only, or whiskers. 

During these last days he had been tried by the 
62 


63 


THE PASSER-BY 

haunting image of Mrs. Moore. He had walked a 
good deal in Fifth Avenue hoping to catch a ghmpse 
of her, hoping that he might see her less disturbingly 
beautiful, and by such a second impression eclipse the 
former one which had so greatly unsettled him, for 
he could not allow himself to hope what her haunting 
image lured him Into wishing. It was all wonderfully 
beautiful, no doubt. It was a rejuvenation of all his 
being, coming unexpectedly when he had gradually 
settled into a dignified aloofness from the most un- 
wise of all earthly turmoils ; but in the very midst of 
this rejuvenation persisted the consciousness of having 
passed the hmits beyond which his 3fielding to such a 
turmoil ceased to be beautiful. For the last three or 
four years he had stopped dancing in accordance with 
the same sense of fitness which proceeded only from a 
keen sense of the ridiculous. And now, while he 
expected to see her and was looking forward to it, he 
wished that he might discover behind her disturbing 
charms that which might appeal to his most earnest 
susceptibihties. 

It was therefore to compose himself that with a 
critical eye he went over his notes on electrocution. 

He had not finished when Lore appeared as an 
auspicious interruption to his edifying, but cheerless, 
occupation, for they were going to walk together to 
the lunch where he would see her again — a prospect 
which, when all was weighed, had stamped this day 
as with the sign of a special grace. 

On Fifth Avenue they were caught in the blustering 
activity of a crisp winter day. Buffeted from this and 
that side, women held on tightly to their skirts, to 
their hats. A throng of vehicles checked by the police 


64 


THE PASSEE-BY 


crawled in double file. Among them motor-cars 
snorted and horses glittered, while between them 
ambulances sped swiftly, rattling insistently their 
alarm bells. Further up, the whistle and clanging 
of a fire-engine grew louder from a side street, echoed 
in full blast as it shot across Fifth Avenue, to sub- 
side again in the continuous clatter. Loud explosions 
were heard intermittently from the west. 

“ There is something decidedly bracing in the 
atmosphere of this town,” said Kamensky, as he ran 
alertly up some wooden steps leading to a covered 
bridge that spanned a precipice where the pavement 
should have been. Lore made no answer, for just then 
they were both wrapped in a whirl of mortar dust 
from which they emerged shghtly paler in colour. 
Kamensky laughed. After the gloomy monotony of 
his last days spent in overlooking prisons,, he found 
something inspiriting in the free variations of his 
surroundings. “ Cheer up ! Cheer up ! ” he said, 
because Lore looked in dismay at the white dust on 
the sleeve of his overcoat. 

“ Infernal place ! ” muttered Lore. 

“ Why do you take things so literally ? ” 

“ ‘ Literally ? ’ I like that ! We are covered with 
dust. You see a symbol in it, I suppose.” 

“ Of course ! Are you not aware that we are living 
in the heart of the country that is setting a new pace 
for the world ? Think of it ! ” 

“ Damned rotten pace : . again grumbled Lore. 
But Kamensky only smiled in the exuberance of 
his spirits that throbbed in full harmony with the new, 
fresh wave of life surging about him. 

They were the first to arrive at Lady Selden’s house, 


65 


THE PASSER-BY 

or rather at her sister’s, Mrs. Larkin, with whom Lady 
Selden was staying. Mrs. Larkin looked composed 
and thoughtful, but Lady Selden seemed worried. 
Lore and Kamensky, who knew her well, saw it at 
once, and she was glad to admit it as soon as she was 
asked about it. 

“ I’m afraid I’ve done something rash,” she said, 
smihng again in the rehef that she derived from her 
confession. “ I think that I must tell you all about 
it.” And she looked anxiously at her sister. “ But 
you mustn’t repeat a word of it.” Again she smiled 
to show her confidence in her listeners. “Last night, 
at Mrs. Ashley’s ball at Sherry’s, Mrs. Edge came up 
to me while I was talking to the Marquise de Chare. 
But the moment the marquise saw Mrs. Edge’s move 
she left me. Of course, Mrs. Edge saw it and was very 
much cut up about it. She said she had met the 
marquise in Paris, and that she did not understand 
why she should treat her like that here. The fact 
is the haste of the marquise in getting out of the way 
was rather evident. I pretended it was not. But 
I couldn’t persuade her. She was perfectly furious 
and very much hurt, and declared that if I thought 
what I said, I might ask her to meet the marquise. 
Well ... on the spur of the moment I asked her to 
lunch for to-day, she and Mrs. Edge. Then I went to 
Madame de Chare and explained the situation, and 
it was her turn tP get furious. StiU, she did not deny 
having met the Edges in Paris. It was quite possible, 
she said. Then I remonstrated with her that she had 
no personal reason to offend Mrs. Edge hke that. 
Had she ? And she admitted that too. But she is 
staying with the Dorades, and you know that the 

E 


66 


THE PASSEE-BY 

Dorades won’t have anything to do with the Edges. 
So she thought that she would avoid an equivocal 
situation by avoiding the Edges. I thought it rather 
far-fetched, and said so. Wasn’t it all rather absurd ? 
She is only passing through New York. Well, to 
make a long story short, she accepted. She said she 
would come to lunch to-day. I thought I had come 
out of it rather well, when my sister, on my telhng 
her about it, got furious in her turn, abused me . . .” 

“ I didn’t abuse you, Mary,” said Mrs. Larkin. 

“You said I had made a mess ! ” 

“ And so you have. It’s all very well for you who 
don’t hve here. But I do.” 

Lady Selden looked perplexed. Then she appealed 
to Lore : “ What could I do ? ” 

“ You might have put her off without fixing a 
date.” 

Kamensky was more sympathetic. “ Of course. 
With her nailing you down Hke that ... I quite, 
imderstand. It would have been rather difficult.” 

“ No,” put in Mrs. Larkin. “ I have no sympathy 
for a woman who pushes her way as Mrs. Edges does. 
She deserves none. Mary was too weak, of course.” 

The front door bell rang. “ Please don’t say a 
word of it to anybody,” Lady Selden whispered hastily, 
her brows knit in anxiety ; then, as the new-comer 
entered, she beamed all over : “ Here is ‘ our Mr. 
Clare ! ’ How are you, Mr. Clare ? You know Mr. 
Lore — Mr. Kamensky. Mr. Kamensky, do you know 
that Mr. Clare is one of our celebrities ? He is unique 
in leading our cotillons. Jimmy, you must get an 
invitation for Mr. Kamensky to the Bateman’s ball.” 
Then turning to Kamensky again : “ He conceives 


THE PASSEE-BY 67 

the prettiest figures you can imagine. Isn’t it true, 
Mr. Clare ? ” 

“ I don’t know whether to wish that it were true. 
I would have to wish to be your mother.” 

“ Oh ! How charmingly naughty of you ! ” and 
then she laughed as if no worry had ever entered her 
mind. “ Now, you must be good, otherwise you will 
shock my sister and Mr. Kamensky. Mr. Kamensky 
is a very serious man. He spends his time in prisons 
and in watching electrocutions.” 

Kamensky smiled. “ How do you know ? ” 

“ Haven’t you seen this morning’s papers ? ” and 
then she declaimed : “ Muscovite in Tombs and Sing 
Sing assists electrocution to import it to land of Czar ! ” 

“ What nonsense ! ” said Kamensky. “ I really 
think electrocution the worst form of capital punish- 
ment. They had to apply the current three times 
yesterday. A doctor fainted.” 

Again the bell rang, and the next moment a servant 
brought in a note on a tray. “ You’ll excuse me,” 
said Lady Selden, nervously tearing open the envelope. 
As she read the note her smile vanished, and when 
she lifted her eyes, she looked like a child on the verge 
of crying. 

With a significant glance at Lore and Kamensky 
she said : “ The Marquise de Chare has an awful 

headache. She can’t come.” 

“ What frauds you foreign women are ! ” broke in 
Clare. “ I saw her driving on Fifth Avenue half an 
hour ago.” 

“You must be mistaken ! ” exclaimed Lady Selden, 
positively distressed. 

“Oh, no, queen of the Seldens! I am not! But 


68 


THE PASSEK-BY 

don’t be alarmed. You are not as foreign as that yet. 
You can’t be a fraud if you try to.” 

His facetiousness had no effect on her. She still 
insisted: “She may have been driving home. ... I 
got a headache like that the other day. I caught it 
just as I was driving home for lunch.” 

“ Oh ! you divine queen of the Seldens ! She was 
driving the other way ! Down town, with Mrs. 
Dorade.” 

There was a pause, during which Lady Selden’s face 
showed no sign of mirth. 

“ Have I put my foot in it ? ” asked Clare. 

“ Yes — just one . . . and I’ll have to tell you some- 
thing to prevent you from putting both in it presently.” 
Then, under the oath of secrecy, she told him all over 
again what Lore and Kamensky had already heard. 
Clare seemed to relish it, Mrs. Larkin to chew bitterness 
out of it. 

“ What is he ? ” whispered Kamensky to Lore. 

Un enfant gate of New York society. He began 
calling every woman queen last night at Mrs. Ashley’s 
ball during supper, and it was a great success.” 

Lady Selden had barely explained the situation 
when in came the Edges. She was one of those women 
who impress one as young-looking for their age. No 
one knew hers. But her hair seemed prematurely 
white as it framed the sharpness of her glances tem- 
pered by a professional smile, a dauntless smile war- 
ranted to work in all conditions. Mr. Edge’s appear- 
ance suggested the word mangy. He was furnished 
with a good crop of pepper-and-salt coloured hair, 
apparently refractory to brush and comb, as it escaped 
here and there in independent wisps. He possessed 


69 


THE PASSEE-BY 

a creditable moustache too, but drooping, of the seal 
kind. It may have been owing to his scanty milk- 
coloured eyelashes that he had that indefinable air of 
dilapidation about his well-dressed person that is a 
property of worn-out fur collars and muffs. They 
entered in the order in which they fought the battle 
of life ; she, the attacking party, sailed ahead. He 
followed as a reserve, with no inspiriting fiourishes of 
trumpets, but with a grim determination to sustain 
the dash that preceded him. 

Mrs. Moore arrived immediately after them. In- 
troductions followed, then a fragmentary conversa- 
tion consisting in statements about the weather, 
grippe, and theatres. 

Kamensky went up to Mrs. Moore, and having 
httle to say that was not banal, said nothing at all. 
Lore was speaking to her, but he seemed to be even 
more intimate than familiar with her. There was 
evidently a chain of associations between them, and 
Kamensky felt “ out of it.” All the more so that a 
stupid timidity from which he suffered at times held 
him now. Physical beauty, chiefly in a woman, 
impressed him as a divine investiture of majesty. 
He felt in it the distinction of an aristocracy specially 
granted by the gods for some obscure purpose before 
which his desire of approaching it and his sense of 
reverence conflicted, resulting in a tumultuous im- 
mobihty. He felt now that to say anything trivial 
would have been little short of disgraceful. He must 
make some remark that had a rare point to it. But 
the remark did not come, and so he smiled at Lore’s 
veiled intimation of the Edge’s imbroglio. “ Such a 
ripping story ! I must tell you later ! ” 


70 


THE PASSEE-BY 

From this apparent indiscretion of his friend, 
Kamensky was led to believe still further in Lore’s 
intimacy with Mrs. Moore, on whose discretion at 
least Lore must have known that he could count. 

All the same, he did not feel jealous or even envious. 
If she was what she appeared to him, then Lore might 
trifle round the “ lady ” without touching the excep- 
tional woman whom he felt that he divined. Then 
and there his hope in vague possibflities struck him as 
mad, yet he knew that he would not renounce striving 
after it. However little way he should make in her 
good graces would be that much attained toward a 
higher consciousness of life. Her face, though, held 
him wondering by its expression of ethereal lovehness 
perversely fused with one of smouldering passion. 
He felt it an indiscretion to glance from the clear spirit- 
uahty of her eyes to the intimate revelation of her 
lips, as if they might quiver in resentment with a 
conscious sensitiveness of their own. 

“ I think we won’t wait for Mr. Emory,” said Lady 
Selden with a constrained air. As for Mr. Edge, who 
had been sitting near her in close, whispered confabula- 
tion, he looked simply ominous, his scanty eyelashes 
bhnking over a lurid glow. 

The move toward the dining-room had begun when 
Mr. Emory came in, his head thrust forward sideways, 
scanning with a monocled eye the little crowd in 
search of his hostess, whom no sooner did he perceive 
than he dropped his eye-glass dangling from a broad 
black riband across the whiteness of his waistcoat, 
and with a stooping alacrity which was not inelegant 
went up to her and kissed her hand. 

He was a sybarite and a cosmopoHtan to the extent 


THE PASSER-BY 71 

of looking decidedly exotic anywhere, for he looked 
hke a foreigner in America, and hke an American out 
of it. He had the best Burgundy and the best clarets 
in New York, and having come to them from cham- 
pagne, like a picture collector who reaches Manet and 
Degas, after having started with Meissonnier and 
Fortuny, he was inchned to form his opinion of people’s 
characters from the wine that they would choose at his 
table, where champagne and Burgundy were served 
at once. In England, he thought himself a “ perfect 
gentleman,” in Paris a “ viveur,” but he had to put 
up with being called a “bon vivant” in the society 
columns of his own country. 

It was with a subdued emotion that Kamensky 
took his place next to Mrs. Moore at the table. As she 
spoke to Clare, who sat on the other side of her, he 
gazed at the nape of her neck, from which her auburn 
hair ascended in a shining swirl to coil under a rose 
in her hat. Was she conscious of the degree and the 
kind of feehng that she could provoke by the searching 
art with which she emphasized her beauty ? Was 
there in her an anticipation of such feelings, and a 
latent responsiveness to them ? Or was it merely in 
her a habit, a conventional adherence to fashion, the 
result of feminine emulation ? He had never understood 
if this emulation in women had its roots in their desire 
to outdo each other, or to please men. Perhaps they 
did not think of it one way or the other, they just 
preened themselves instinctively hke birds in spring. 

While he was thus absorbed he had been lending an 
inattentive ear to Mrs. Larkin’s facetious criticisms on 
her sister. The facetiousness was for the sake of 
propriety, the criticisms came from her heart. Lady 


72 THE PASSEE-BY 

Selden filled her house with people for lunches and 
dinners, and she never told her till the last minute 
how many people she had asked. Most of the time 
she did not even remember it. And all this made a 
break in her life that it took some time to repair. 
When alone she enjoyed having special evenings for 
her friends, very informally, a kind of intellectual 
evening. “ But Mary is so turbulent ! Then, some 
of her friends are so noisy. Society here is getting so 
noisy. Don’t you think so ? ” 

The question interrupted his own fine of thought, 
and without reahzing exactly what it referred to he 
answered emphatically in the suggested affirmative. 

“ Ah ! You’ve noticed it too ? In a way, I am 
sorry. Foreigners must get such strange ideas about 
us. And not altogether fair. The best people are the 
least ostentatious. There are a good many who are 
interested in something else beyond money-making 
and its vulgar ostentation.” 

Somewhat shocked, he wondered to what he had so 
emphatically acquiesced. Evidently to some apolo- 
getic admission about society that he often heard in 
its* midst, and with which it would hardly have been 
in good taste for him to agree. 

To soften the effect of his acquiescence apparently 
misplaced, he said that everywhere society had short- 
comings. 

/ “ Yes, but at least in countries where it is based on 

\ traditions it has an ‘ allure,’ a dignity which is missing 
where there are no traditions.” 

“ One can’t have everything ! . . . Traditions are 
certainly very agreeable from an aesthetic point of 
view. They furnish an orderly pageant, no doubt, 


THE PASSER-BY 73 

but also a self-assurance which exempts society from 
any effort at initiative, whereas the lack of traditions 
compels society to an activity by which it can dis- 
tinguish itself. I see it here every day.” 

“ Do you ? . . .You surprise me ! I never go out 
to dinner that I don’t hear of the Stock Exchange.” 

“ Oh ? . . . I wasn’t thinking ... I wasn’t think- 
ing of that side. When I go out to dinner I sit next 
to women.” 

“ Thank you. Very well put.” 

“ Why ? Do you think I have an arriere 'pensee ? ” 

“ Haven’t you ? ” 

“ I know what you mean. Well, of course, I know 
very little about the Stock Exchange, but I think it a 
fault, not a merit in me ; I wish I knew more about it.” 

“ To make money ? ” 

“ No, not necessarily. Rather because history to- 
day is evolved in Wall Street as much as it used to be 
on the battlefield or in a minister’s cabinet. To 
understand the strategy and the statesmanship that 
make history nowadays one should be initiated in 
Wall Street.” Then he had to turn away from Mrs. 
Larkin to help himself to some peas and potatoes, for 
he was a vegetarian. 

“ I thought you were a musician the other night,” 
said Mrs. Moore to him. 

“Oh, yes. At the Opera.” 

“ What is Kamensky saying of the Opera ? ” broke 
in Lady Selden. “ Surely something awfully clever ! 
Ob, do say it again ! I am dying to hear it ! ” 

“ Oh ! You divine queen of the Seldens ! ” ex- 
claimed Clare, his voice pitched high. “ Are we not 
clever who sit by you ? ” 


74 


THE PASSER-BY 


“ Of course you are ! But were you at Pagliacci 
last night ? ” 

“ Oh, Mary, Mary ! And you ask me ! Did I not 
come and kneel at your feet in your box ? Will I 
have to kiss you next time to be remembered ? ” 

“ How ungallant ! Why next time ? ” 

Clare jumped up from his chair. Lady Selden pro- 
testing at the top of her voice : “ Too late ! too late ! 
to wait until you are told ! ” 

Hubbub and laughter reigned for an instant, then 
Clare resumed his place. Mrs. Larkin and Mr. Edge 
alone had remained grave. Mrs. Larkin finding that 
her sister’s turbulence exceeded even her expectation, 
as did the loudness of some of her sister’s friends. 
Mr. Edge did not uncloud, because he did not intend 
to be so easily deterred from exacting a satisfaction 
for the afEront that he and Mrs. Edge had received. 
They too had seen the Marquise de Chare driving on 
Fifth Avenue just half an hour before. Everybody 
must have seen her. And as, in opening his cross- 
examination with a “ blufi,” he had ehcited from Lady 
Selden the information that Clare knew of her having 
been asked and consequently expected, he was pressing 
his arguments toward a public reparation, since their 
affront had become pubfic. Clare must have seen her 
too, Clare would spread the news abroad. Lady 
Selden, reduced to her last trenches, had made a desper- 
ate dash at Kamensky to extricate herself from Mr. 
Edge’s pressure, since Mr. Emory, who sat on the other 
side of her, did not afford a sufficient diversion. 

“ Some phases of our society must seem strange to 
you,” remarked Mrs. Moore to Kamensky. 

“ Very spirited,” said he. 


75 


THE PASSEE-BY 

A nice way to put it ! ” 

“ Not half nice enough for the way I feel. To-day, 
somehow, has seemed to me a new day, born fateful 
among meaningless days. Have you ever had that 
feehng ? As of a sudden rebirth in happiness of one- 
self and of everything aroimd one ? I remember 
having felt it at times in an early, early dawn with 
leaves ghttering in the hght of a lustral sky arisen out 
of night and storm. But I am talking nonsense ! ” 

“ No ! No ! You do feel that ? ” 

“ Yes — and after no storm either. Just out of a 
simply clear sky. The storm may follow. That’s 
the way things happen sometimes.” 

“ I am afraid so. I am afraid things always happen 
that way. It is dreadful.” 

“ WeU ... I don’t know. Probably because when 
one is intoxicated with the freshness of such a day one 
feels as if nothing could really pay for it.” 

She looked at him very interested: “ You are heroic. 
I mean it seriously — ^you feel young — ^very, very young.” 

He laughed. “ Yes, perhaps I do. You know the 
feehng too.” 

“ Ought I ? ... I used to . . . once. But now ! 
. . . Can such things as lustral skies be seen otherwise 
than stale with tired eyes, on coming home too late 
from a baU ? ” 

“ Probably not, if one chooses that way of looking at 
them.” 

“ One doesn’t choose. It just happens that way.” 

“Is it possible ! You just put up with things that 
happen ? . . . I should have thought you would have 
been yourself a cause for things to happen. ... Do 
you beheve so httle in yourself ? . . .’ 


76 


THE PASSEE-BY 

“In myself. ... Is oneself what one has been or 
what one is ? ” 

“ The better of the two. If it has been, it may be 
silent, but it is always there.” 

“ I had once a friend, a very dear friend. We were 
of the same age. She used to feel as you do. Every 
day came full of beautiful meanings to her. She 
might have said what you say. I believed in her, 
but she is dead now.” She had started on an impulse 
of revolt out of her compHance with the conditions of 
her life ; of revolt against a vague and complex 
entity : her inert seK, the world, her husband, with 
the sudden reahzation of what she was missing, and 
with as sudden a longing for sympathy. Then she 
had faltered, aware of the seamy side of her impulse ; 
the cheap look of an appeal for sympathy based on 
imaginary griefs. The trick of a sentimental woman 
to trap a man’s interest. Her wish of making the 
metaphor transparent when she had started, sank 
in the hope that he would not see more than a casual 
remark in her last sentence. He felt more than a 
casual remark in it, however, but too vague an illusion 
to depths that it would be dangerous to sound awk- 
wardly. And so he did not answer, but looked at her 
from his heart, seeing beyond the beauty that had 
fascinated him. And for an instant he imagined a 
communion exalted above the allurements of sex, a 
communion to which his heart arose when touched by 
any degree or kind of pain. 

There was a pause, during which both strove to find 
another link in the chain of affinity that they felt 
between them. She wishing to do so without com- 
mitting herself any further, he without intruding. 


THE PASSER-BY 77 

“Sometimes I think,” she said, after a while, “that 
we have to pay too much for whatever we get. . . . 
There doesn’t seem to be a compensation in the happi- 
ness that was for what we pay for it, always afterwards. 
Don’t you think so ? ” 

“ The price is high,” he said, and paused as he 
mentally proceeded to frame the idea of suffering as 
being not only the price of preceding happiness, but 
also that of happiness to follow, since it evolved 
capacities for happiness and peace more permanent 
than those from which it had sprung. 

But Clare suddenly filled the pause : “I quite 
agree with you ; the price of everything is getting 
simply preposterous, and as for Newport, why, one 
might as well be in a robber’s cave ! ” 

Mrs. Moore turned from Kamensky with a glancing 
smile, at which his heart expanded, because, beside its 
dainty irony, it seemed also to say : “Be patient. 
You see it isn’t my fault ; we’ll have to see each other 
again.” 

Lady Selden, however, becoming aware that Mr. 
Edge was slowly and determinate^ going to besiege 
her again, called out : “ Oh, Mr. Clare ! You must 
tell us something about the ball ! ” 

But he defended himself. If he told there would 
be no surprise. The Batemans meant to give a 
surprise. 

“ I think they have done that already,” said Mr. 
Emory. “ Everybody has accepted their invitations. 
I must say I don’t see how they’ve managed it. I 
really will have to come to this country a little oftener. 
Such weird things are beginning to happen.” 

“ Haven’t you accepted ? ” asked Clare. 


78 


THE PASSER-BY 

“ Of course. Since everybody has. IVe asked 
other people, they said they were going. Then I’ve 
been asked in my turn and I’ve said I was going. 
But how it all started — that’s what beats me. You 
ought to know, you and Reggie. You are the sponsors 
of the whole thing. How the devil did you do it ? ” 

“ We didn’t. ... It was already done, through 
Mrs. Dorade and the Van Ordens. They started the 
ball rolling.” 

“ How exciting ! Now you must tell us how ! ” 
exclaimed Lady Selden. “ I’ve known the Batemans 
for years, and they seemed the last people to wish to 
get into society. I knew them before I was married, 
when they used to hve in Thirty-fifth Street.” 

“ In their brown, stone front house ? ” put in 
Clare. 

“Yes ; then I saw them again when I came over here 
eight years ago, in their beautiful Italian house.” 
To emphasize the beauty of the house she put on an 
almost frightened expression. “ What a wonderful 
house it was ! Like a museum. They had a minia- 
ture Italian garden with a fountain in the middle of it. 
What lots of money it must have cost them ! ” 

“ Oh, yes,” drawled Mr. Emory. “ I remember 
hearing of it. An Italian nobleman going into dinner 
recognized half of his ancestral tomb in the dining-room 
mantelpiece,” and then he remained grave while 
everybody else laughed, but inwardly he chuckled at 
his own sense of humour, his dry sense of humour. 

“ But why did they pull it down ? ” asked Lady 
Selden, who in self-defence was afraid of dropping the 
subject. 

“ Why ! That kind of Italian house is no more the 


THE PASSEE-BY 79 

fashion,” explained Clare. “ Mr. Bateman is a very 
bright man.” 

“ I thought she was the moving spirit, except for 
her lack of social ambition. I remember when I saw 
her last, eight years ago, she went in desperately for 
culture. She is an awfully clever woman.” 

“ Lack of social ambition ! ” and Clare chuckled. 
“ She never let on, but . . . but she would never have 
arrived without him. She substituted the liouis 
Seize hotel for the Italian house, that’s true. Women 
catch on to fashions quicker than men, but there are 
other millionaires who’ve built palaces, and where are 
they ? ” 

“ I suppose she didn’t look anxious and set people 
wondering.” 

“ It takes more than that to set people wondering, 
nowadays,” commented Mr. Emory. 

“ As you say,” confirmed Clare. “ It was Mr. 
Bateman who first conceived the idea of the Mont de 
Piete.” 

“ What’s that ? ” And Mr. Emory, adjusting his 
monocle to his left eye, scanned Clare. 

“ Why ! Haven’t you seen the Mont de Pi6t6, 
which is going to put out of business every money- 
lender in New York ? Haven’t you heard of the great 
charitable institution which charges six per cent a 
year instead of twenty-two ? Haven’t you heard 
that those who wish to dispose of conscience money 
have got but to redeem every pawned article below 
two, five, or ten dollars according to their scruples ? 
It goes straight to the poorest.” 

“ No, I confess I haven’t. My conscience money 
goes out in Burgundy,” and dropping his monocle he 


80 


THE PASSEE-BY 

looked all round impassively, like an owl, which set 
people laughing. “ All the same, I don’t see it yet.” 

“ Well, I’ll tell you. It was Mr. Bateman who 
thought the whole scheme out ; he got Bellerose to 
draw the plans of the building. Bellerose was to 
speak of it to his friend, Mr. Dorade, and to the Van 
Ordens, and get them interested in it from a philan- 
thropic point of view. Of course, he put up all the 
money — Bateman, I mean — ^leaving only a little margin 
for collection, by which he could associate himself 
with the generosity of other co-operators, chosen, of 
course, in society. It was only right that society 
should get the merit of patronizing such a sound charity. 
It was only right, of course, that there should be 
meetings for this purpose at the Bateman’s, at Mrs. 
Dorade’s, at the Van Orden’s in turn. Charity 
brought them all together ; the Berilles are in it too, 
and others followed. It you want to be up to date, 
you’d better subscribe too. There’s still room. The 
institution will be self-supporting. Do you see it 
now ? ” 

“ So it’s a charity ball ? ” concluded Mr. Emory. 

In whispers Mr. Edge was now attacking Lady 
Selden once more. He considered the Mont de Piete 
a noble institution ; he was ready to subscribe to such 
a charitable enterprise. She must help him. And 
she looked hke one who watched and felt cold water 
rise and rise about her, barely controUing little nervous 
gasps of fear. While at her left it took now all of 
Mr. Emory’s worldly sagacity to elude Mrs. Edge’s 
insinuating, smiling advances toward his celebrated 
collection of snuff-boxes, the last piece of which he had 
secured at Christie’s for two thousand pounds. After 


81 


THE PASSEE-BY 

the appreciation of his Burgundy nothing pleased him 
as much as the appreciation of his snuff-box collection. 
Her move was astute, but her astuteness notorious, 
and he was growing tired of being on his guard against 
it. He would have been seriously annoyed if it had 
not occurred to him that he was “edging” his way 
out of difficulties, a joke that made him chuckle 
inwardly at his own sense of humour, without which, 
as he often used to say, “ Life would not be worth 
living.” All the same, he bore a grudge against Lady 
Selden for having put him in a tight place, and that 
while eating, of all times ! 

No one, however, reahzed the heroism of Mrs. 
Edge’s smile. She only pushed her way so long as 
she felt soft ground, then tactfully desisted, while she 
saw her husband making an ass of himself with Lady 
Selden. What good would it do him to harass her 
like that ? She would avoid them both like the plague 
in future. After all, if Lady Selden had failed this 
time she would still have been good for something 
else. One never knew. Mrs. Edge tried to catch her 
husband’s eye, but in vain, then, all considered, she 
wished that he would rather pester Lady Selden than 
suck up to Clare. He was no good at that game, 
anyhow. If he should tamper with Clare, he would 
simply spoil her own chances with him. So she 
watched him Hke those fishermen’s wives in Dutch 
pictures, who stand helpless on the surf-beaten shore 
while their husbands are wrecked and in danger of 
drowning under their eyes, a little way off. This 
she saw, this she felt, and yet talked smihngly to Mr. 
Emory about snuff-boxes, to Lore about music and 
books, chiefiy of those aiming at the spiritual side of life. 


F 


82 


THE PASSEE-BY 

During the rest of the lunch Mrs. Moore and Kamen- 
sky had httle chance of talking again as intimately 
as they had done. The conversation became general 
and fragmentary, and when lunch was over the rout 
of the guests was immediate. Except Kamensky 
everybody seemed to be already late for something. 

Silvian Lore went out with JVIrs. Moore. She wanted 
him to help her to make up her mind about two 
appliques and some old Venetian red damask curtains 
which were on exhibition at Twenty-third Street, 
previous to being sold at auction the following day. 

Kamensky remained last, and he saw, as he expected. 
Lady Selden break down. With tears in her eyes she 
swore that never, never would she try again to do a 
good turn to any one ! “ Oh, he was so rude to me ! ” 

and he consoled her, soothed her, smoothed her. 
“You are sympathetic ! ” she said, as she began once 
more to beam with smiles through her tears. 

He was more happy than sympathetic. Anything 
would have been easy for him. “ I am going to the 
Opera to-night — are you ? ” Mrs. Moore had said, then 
on his answering that he would, she had added : 
“ But come and see me after five any day, at home. 
We can’t very well talk at the Opera.” 

Her words had come to him as the special grace of 
this day, the sign of which had been clear to him when 
he had first opened his eyes to its fight. 


VII 


T hat night Kamensky saw her again in her box 
at the Opera. As she had told him after lunch, 
they did not have the chance of saying much to each 
other. 

Her box was one of those which was always packed. 
It was full when he got there at the end of an ent'^racte, 
hoping to find visitors leaving it ; then he stayed on 
after the curtain had gone up and the house was 
darkened. But then the phrasing of Mme. Giralda 
in the “ Barbiere,” with the tinkling of a piano accom- 
paniment, made it impossible to talk. It wasn’t loud 
enough to cover his voice, and too shrill for him to 
make himself heard by whispering. So he sat for a 
while, growing more and more uncomfortable, with 
the feehng that he ought to have gone as all the other 
visitors had. 

He tried to find some interest in the phrasing, in 
the fioriture and in the cadenzas, but instead their 
continuous repetitions got on his nerves, as well as 
Mme. Giralda’s short green skirt coquettishly whisked 
about. He rapidly felt himself losing all seK-respect, 
more and more aware that he was committing a grave 
breach of Opera etiquette by not leaving the box, 
and with beads of perspiration on his forehead at the 
distressed certainty that it was so. It seemed to him 
that everybody in the box had him on their minds 
83 


84 


THE PASSER-BY 


and were thinking how odd his behaviour was. Two 
men were sitting behind him, and he was sure that 
their looks converged in irritation on his back. At 
the same time Mrs. Moore’s shoulders were so com- 
pletely turned to him that he did not know how to 
attract her attention so as to take leave of her. He 
gazed at her shoulders, and their beauty seemed 
ominous to him, as the sombre outline of her hair 
against the lighted stage. Yes, Lore was right — her 
dress was cut admirably low. In England, he had 
never seen such a low cut-dress. What it framed down 
to, a point not far from her supple waist, was too con- 
fusingly beautiful. But he was unworthy of looking 
at it. He couldn’t look at it with the serene aesthetic 
appreciation that would have made him worthy of it. 
But then . . . that subtle perfume of hers ! How 
could he be serene ? . . . 

He was afraid, horribly afraid too that she ignored 
him like that to make him understand his false posi- 
tion. Twice he got haH up with a courteous smile on 
his face, expecting that she would turn round, but she 
did not notice him, and twice he sat back again, with- 
drawing his smile in painful embarrassment. He was 
sure that the two men behind him must enjoy his 
discomfiture, and laugh at him in their sleeves. Wasn’t 
he occup3dng one of their seats ? 

He got up once more, with a rather forced smile on 
his face, and bent himself awkwardly forward until he 
attracted her attention. And this time he succeeded. 
She turned suddenly toward him, gave him her hand, 
and with the most gracious of smiles said : “Be sure 
to come and see me.” 

Outside of the box he drew his handkerchief across 


85 


THE PASSEE-BY 

his forehead and walked away in the corridor just to 
find his balance again. After all, perhaps, he hadn’t 
“ made a break.” He would always suppose other 
people as sensitive as himself. Perhaps no one had 
thought anything of his staying on after the curtain 
had been raised. He was positively too sensitive, 
at least the moment that he became sentimental. 
He was too sentimental ! Perhaps he inherited this 
trait from his mother. His mother had been very 
sentimental. She had come from Germany during 
the Victorian era. But then, now he was in love. 
Who would ever have foreseen it ! A frightfully bad 
fit of it. It made him lose every shred of his seK- 
reliance. It made him very happy too, and utterly 
silly. She, at any rate, hadn’t minded his lingering 
in the box. “ Be sure he sure^'" she had said, 
“ to come and see me.” And then the way she had 
smiled ! Now, that was sufficient. He didn’t ask 
for more. That alone made him feel hke one intoxi- 
cated. Who knew ? He might be useful to her 
because she felt that he understood her. He mustn’t 
think too little of himseK. His very sensitiveness 
could make him share with such a woman certain 
shades of feeling that she found lost upon others. 
That was why she had said those things to him at 
lunch. It had been something like a confidence, 
almost a confession : “ A friend of hers, of her own age, 
who thought as he did. Every day had come full of 
beautiful meanings to her. But she was dead now.” 
That was herself as she had been . . . perhaps, 
before her marriage. No doubt. And now, after her 
marriage, she saw things stale, with tired eyes, on 
coming home late from a ball. It was clear. 


86 


THE PASSEE-BY 

When he passed before an open box he still heard 
the cadenzas^ but now they had a certain old-fashioned 
charm. They made him see a generation which found 
seductions in crinohnes and Dundreary whiskers, as 
he used to see them in a photograph-album at home, 
when a child. 

He wondered whether she really enjoyed Rossini, 
and then, whether she had ignored his two first at- 
tempts at leaving to prevent him from leaving. . . . 
could it be ? It was always the unexpected that 
happened, and then he, fike a fool, had insisted until 
she could not ignore him any longer. . . . What a 
fool ! 

Her box had been open when he had left it. He 
went toward it thinking that he might catch a ghmpse 
of her once more. He knew exactly how she would 
appear, all in shadow against the lighted stage. But 
when he went by he reaUzed that he had forgotten 
the curtain between the inner and the outer box, and 
he could see nothing but a chinchilla cloak hanging 
next to another cloak between two men’s coats and 
top-hats. 

Yet the sight held him transfixed gazing at it. He 
was sure that the chinchilla cloak must be hers . . . 
unless it was the other. Her perfume would have 
revealed to him which it was. He might have gone 
in just to breathe it as if he had forgotten something, 
an opera-glass for instance. . . . 

But a matronly maid with a white apron was coming 
forward watching him. Then he went to the next 
box, and to the next again, turned on his heels, and 
round to the other side of the house. 

He might as well go home now. He couldn’t call on 


87 


THE PASSER-BY 

her again to-night. Then it occurred to him that he 
might see her again in the lobby at the end of the 
opera, and he went back to his orchestra stall. 

There was nothing improper in his going up to her 
in the lobby. Of course not ! How inane this opera 
was ! An opera houffe ! ... he didn’t see anything 
hou^e in it. And his forefathers used to be exhilarated 
by it, they raved about it. Beethoven’s star had 
begun to rise in Vienna when Rossini’s rockets had 
ecHpsed his star. People always made for the second- 
rate first. Surely she must get bored by it. And 
should she leave before the end ? He looked at her box, 
she was still there. But would he be in time to catch 
her in the lobby if he left his stall when she left 
her box ? 

He waited a while, yet glancing up now and again, 
then got so nervous that, picking up his hat and coat, 
he went to the lobby. It was safer to wait there. He 
lighted a cigarette. 

“ A lady ! ” Lore had said. That was all Lore saw 
in her. And her husband was an uncut stone, sound, 
but rough, ruse, mais saus finesse — ^Httle short of 
sacrilege if it was so. Well, it had killed the girl for 
whom every day came full of beautiful meanings. 
“ Was oneself what one had been, or what one was ? ” 
she had asked, and he had struck the right note : 
“ The best of the two. What had been might be 
silent, but it was always there.” He was sure that 
she had never put such a question to anyone but him- 
self. How many things must lay smothered within 
her hke that, that she daren’t confide to anybody ? 
What lonehness in the midst of the crowd in which 
she moved ! The best in her smothered ; it was a 


88 


THE PASSEE-BY 


sacrilege ! But how wonderfully she bore it, showing 
only the graceful majesty of her beauty. 

He flung away his cigarette as people began to come 
into the lobby. His thoughts too deserted him. He 
was all attention. 

How many beautiful women ! What lovely shades 
of hair ! Here he saw what he had never seen before, 
grey hair, white hair raised to an unexpected expression 
of youth, with the super-added elegance of a powdered 
effect. Yet all this beauty, all this elegance, was 
meaningless to him except as a setting in which she 
was to shine. She was the perfect type — all other 
types were deviations. 

The glass doors were now continually pushed open ; 
when they swimg back he could see new faces through 
them, but not hers. What if she should have gone 
out by some other exit ? But he found a positive hope 
in the fact that her box was nearest to this place. 
Why should she have gone out by the longest way ? 

The stream increased, keeping the glass doors con- 
tinually open. Twice he had thought that she was 
coming out, then, on seeing better the woman that he 
had mistaken for her, felt as if he had indulged in a 
profanation, and he glanced at them with a vindictive 
eye. 

But when she appeared there could be no mistake — 
the chinchilla fur, her hps, her eyes, her hair, it was all 
supremely precious and unique. Everything else was 
echpsed. She saw him and smiled in answer to his 
bow. 

He took off his hat, and kept it off in a secret 
homage to her. But she was very much surrounded 
by men who had ready things to say, and he did not 


89 


THE PASSEE-BY 

dare to approach her, because he had nothing ready 
to say that was worthy of her and could be said before 
others. To her he could only have spoken a language 
not understood by others, with words that needed the 
frame of silence and of seclusion. Now with these 
men she laughed, but that was not herself really. 
She “ forgot ” herself now. With him only she had 
been really herself during that brief moment at lunch, 
then on turning away from him to talk to Clare about 
the price of things in Newport she had forgotten her- 
self and had laughed as she laughed now. 

All at once he saw Lore near her, and it was as if a 
cloud had come between himself and her. The Hght 
which he had felt as hers and his went dim ; at the 
same time he remembered the things that he had said 
of her to Lore only a few nights ago in this very lobby 
as they had paced the floor smoking cigarettes after 
leaving her box. He had just only met her then, 
and he had said things of her with a Hberty of expres- 
sion that he might have used in commenting upon any 
good-looking woman ; of course, he had been very 
deeply perturbed by her beauty, still, he had felt even 
then that she meant to him more than any woman he 
had ever met. Now every word spoken to Lore came 
back like a sign of treason almost, like an unpardon- 
able and vulgar indiscretion. What he had so freely 
said was not even true : . . a perverse harmony. .. .’’ 

How stupid ! He felt suddenly hot all over, branded 
with the fire of shame. How was he to annul what he 
had said ? Only words, sounds gone as soon as 
uttered, yet indestructible. 

He could not destroy the aspersions by which he 
had first approached her ; a partial reparation only 


90 


THE PASSER-BY 


could be made by correcting in Lore that impression 
by a new one. 

He watched his friend, resolved not to miss the 
chance of redeeming himself as far as he could and as 
soon as he could. Lore had remained a moment near 
her, and now with another man he was escorting 
another lady to her carriage. Kamensky went after 
them, lost sight of them in the conjested street en- 
trance, then found himself outside immediately behind 
Lore, who was doffing his hat to a departing carriage. 
Kamensky took him by the arm : “ Let’s get out of 
this crowd.” 

On the corner of Broadway he asked : “ Which way 
are you going ? ” 

“ Your way if you like. I’ll drop in a minute at the 
Knickerbocker.” 

They walked down Broadway, talking of indifferent 
things, Kamensky watching for his chance, and 
finally provoking it by saying : “ Wasn’t that opera a 
bore ? But what good-looking women ! I was just 
wondering about it in the lobby.” 

“ Yes, stunning ! ... to look at. They enjoy 
being looked at, and that’s all.” 

“ It’s a great deal ! To have beauty to look at is a 
great deal, I mean.” 

“ Yes, for you I suppose so. Almost everything, 
eh ? At times you seem to come from the desert, 
where you have got accustomed to eating locusts.” 

Kamensky laughed, then he said : No, I simply 
think the world is fairly well adjusted. For the very 
little trouble we take about them, women make them- 
selves beautiful for us. If we want more, we must 
give more.” 


THE PASSEE-BY 91 

“We usually give them as much as we take — 
pleasure.” 

“ There you are ! For you it’s all, for some of them 
not enough.” 

“ What an idealist you are ! You never see women 
as they really are, except one, one at least you have 
seen perverse.” 

This Kamensky had not expected. He had meant 
to skirt the question and to straighten it by generaliza- 
tions, for any indulgence in personahty had become 
distasteful to him in this case. Now he was forced 
into it. 

“ I was perverse myself the other night. We al- 
ways see things coloured by our own feehngs.” 

Lore laughed. 

“ Yes. I won’t deny it. It was very stupid of me. 
I talked like a drunken man. I found it out at once 
after, barely knowing her to-day at lunch.” 

“ Well, what do you think of her now ? ” This 
time Lore spoke quite in earnest and seemed very 
much interested. 

“ What do I think ? That she is simply wonderful. 
Not only in her appearance, but in what of her is not 
apparent to everybody. Do you know that with all 
her appearance of having a gay time that woman is 
lonely ? ” 

“ The idea ! Lonely ? ” 

“ Lord, yes ! But loneliness crowns her beauty 
hke a diadem ! She carries it off with the graceful 
majesty which is always hers.” 

“ But why lonely ! ” 

“ Why ? Well, you are funny ! You ask me why, 
when you know the subtle dehcacy, the refinement of 


92 


THE PASSEE-BY 

her thoughts, of her feehngs, as well as I, and when 
you yourself told me that the man she lives with is 
rough, is an uncut stone. Isn’t it evident that she 
must get bruised ? ” 

“ Oh ! Women are passive creatures ! That sort 
of thing makes no more impression on them than water 
on a duck’s back.” 

Kamensky glanced at him. Lore’s assurance on 
this subject grated on his nerves : “Of course, they 
are not going to flaunt their intimate miseries in your 
face. Beside, there are lots of callous women. I 
know that.” 

“ Callous ! Why callous ? A woman marries most 
of the time^ under the spell of an illusion, and when 
she’s found it out what else is there to be done but to 
put up with it, and try to find some consolation wher- 
ever she can and forget ? ” 

“ Yes, maybe, but the worst of it is that most of 
the time she is made to forget one illusion by another. 
I don’t go in for love-affairs, but if I did ...” He 
paused. What the deuce was he saying ! 

“ If you did ? ” 

“ Well, then I wouldn’t go in for it.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ What you’ve said, I suppose. I am an ideaflst. 
Yes, I am an idealist, but so is every nice woman. 
Be sure that after all the mere love-affair becomes 
dust to her the moment she discovers that that was all. 
Poor creature, and wonderful creature ! ” 

“Then what? Not even console her? Rather 
hard on her.” 

“ What you mean by consolation is only one more 
disappointment. Why give her gilded with illusion 


93 


THE PASSER-BY 

what she’s already got ? Why not give her the 
worship which is complete in itself, that doesn’t ask 
for anything, that she could allow without fear and 
without loss of dignity ? That heightens the man 
who dares to express it to the best power that’s in him. 
I am sure no woman could be offended by that.” 

“ Of course not,” said Lore ; then after a moment’s 
reflection he added : “ But that would only be a nice 
wedge.” 

“ What a place ! ” exclaimed Kamensky, pointing 
to the sky, afire with advertisements. How idiotic 
of him to have let himself go on in this strain with a 
man hke Lore ! 


VIII 


T he next day Lore had just left when Fred 
sauntered in through the formal drawing-room. 
She did not even know that he was in the house. 

“ You’ve come home early,” she said. 

He looked at his watch. “ Five minutes to seven. 
Is it irony ? ” But he was jovial. 

“ How unkind of you. Where were you ? In your 
den ? ” 

“Yes. It’s Saturday.” 

“ That’s so.” She did not add the rest of her 
thought, that leaving his office earlier did not usually 
mean his coming home earher. 

“ Had a pleasant afternoon ? ” 

“ Yes,” she said without zest. This way of his of 
asking stereotyped questions just for the sake of the 
sound of the words only showed her in sharper rehef 
the lack of interest that they had in each other’s Hfe. 
She watched him as he picked up one book, then 
another, looked at them and laid them down again. 
He made her feel nervous with his aimless and deliber- 
ate fussiness. 

“ What do you find in a book hke this, I wonder.” 
He had picked up “ The Pond.” “ Can you make 
head or tail out of it ? ” 

“ Yes, I think it interesting.” She said this with a 
tone of finahty that suggested a full stop on the sub- 
94 


THE PASSEE-BY 95 

ject, took the book that he was handing her, found the 
place where she had left off, and began to read : 

“ In short, the suspense of the pause was portentous, 
and protracted after all on her hps by the echo of the 
last word that he, with all the clarity of doubt, had 
uttered — ‘ perhaps ’ . . But she could not go on, 
he made her feel too nervous. She wished that he 
would leave her alone. It was tiresome enough to 
drag on a conversation with people one didn’t know, 
but it was irritating to do it when one knew the other 
well enough to keep silent, if one had nothing to say. 

“ I bore you, don’t I ? ” 

“No, of course not ! The idea ! ” And she laid 
down the book as much as to say : “ Well, go on.” 

“ What time are we dining to-night ? ” 

“ At eight.” 

“ Are we dining out ? ” His back was turned. 
He was looking at the Reynolds, and she thought 
with what unseeing eyes since it had become his 
property. 

“ Yes — at the Newarks.” 

Why did he look at that picture ? He had only 
cared for pictures once, suddenly, when he had reahzed 
that there were reaUy no good ones in the house, and 
then only because he cared for what was valuable 
independently of its beauty, instead of what was 
beautiful independently of its value. He had laid in 
a stock of them at a stroke, but afterwards when had 
he ever been to look at them in the gallery except to 
show them off ? She didn’t mind this half so much. 
She remembered how it had irritated her to hear him 
use the terms that he had picked up while buying them 
— a Corot of “ a superior quality,” a Daubigny of “ a 


96 


THE PASSEE-BY 


superior quality.” They were all of a superior quality, 
like his cigars and the silk of his pyjamas. It had 
irritated her to such a point to hear him expatiate 
on his knowledge of tone, and composition, and values, 
and construction that one day she had rebelled. If he 
knew so much, why couldn’t he buy now the pictures 
which were going to be expensive some day ? It 
didn’t take much knowledge to find valuable pictures 
by paying big prices for them. Anybody with money 
could do that. 

“ When was a Mr. Darrat here ? He is dotty about 
this Reynolds. I met him at the club.” 

“ Yes, he fiked it very much.” 

“ When did you meet him ? ” 

“ Oh ! Some time ago ... a fortnight ago, per- 
haps. I told you. Don’t you remember ? You saw 
him the other night when I was going to the Van 
Ordens’ ball.” 

He turned from the Reynolds, wandered about and 
bent to smell a plant of narcissus in full bloom. “ Are 
you not afraid of a headache with such strong scented 
flowers ? Roses, narcissus, gardenias — it would make 
my head swim.” 

“ I am accustomed to them.” 

“ Who’s been here to-day ? ” 

“. . . The usual people.” 

“ Mr. Lore ? ” 

“ Oh . . . yes. ... He too.” 

“ When did you meet him ? ” 

She hesitated an instant. “ Lately.” 

She had had the sensation of an inner contraction 
under the sudden rapid fire of his questions. Her last 
answer she let go after a rudimentary pondering. No 


THE PASSEE-BY 97 

time for more. Had she said that she had known him 
for some time, how came it that she had never even 
mentioned him, as she had all her other particular 
guests ? How dreadfully uncomfortable he made 
her feel ! . . . 

“ Lately ? What do you call lately ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know. A fortnight ago, perhaps. 
Time goes so fast in New York.” 

“ Was it before Darrat ? ” 

“ Yes . . . before ... I think.” 

“ Mr Lore has evidently made your time pass 
faster than Mr. Darrat.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” At his insinuation she 
tried to show as much righteous indignation as she was 
able to in the shaky condition of her conscience. 

“ Well, you say that you met Darrat a fortnight 
ago, and Mr. Lore before Mr. Darrat — and that with 
Darrat it was some time ago, while with Mr. Lore it 
was lately. What am I to infer ? ” 

“ Oh, you are so literal. A perfect task-master ! ” 
He laughed, his voice an outburst of frank joviality, 
his eye-glasses now turned full on her with their 
eluding ghtter : “ WTiy do you take the thing so 

seriously ! Can’t you see a joke ? ” 

“ I think your jokes are in very bad taste.” And 
she rose from the lounge, where she felt too warm. 

“ Are they ? I have decidedly no luck. Well, 1 
won’t joke any longer then. Please don’t go. I’ve 
got one more question to ask.” 

“ Do you realize that it is past seven o’clock ? 
That I’ve got to dress,^ and that we are expected for 
eight o’clock at the Newarks ? ” 

“ I am glad to see such a sudden lucidity in your 

G 


98 


THE PASSEE-BY 

appreciation of time. But I must take advantage of 
it. Will you please tell me exactly since when Mr. 
Lore has been coming here ? ” 

“ What a prig you are ! How am I to remember 
exactly ! As if I kept a ledger for the entries of my 
guests ! ” 

You are joking now, are you not ? I won’t ques- 
tion the tastes of your jokes. But I want to know who 
comes to my house, and I want to know it from you. 
For the sake of your dignity as well as for mine it 
would be better that I knew it from you instead of 
being informed of it by casual remarks that I pick up 
outside. I suppose you can understand this. Then 
I mean to have something to say as to the admission 
of people into my house. Mr. Lore has been coming 
here frequently, has he ? . . . Very well. He oughtn’t 
to. I don’t hke the kind of reputation that he has.” 

“ What ? ” 

“ You needn’t be so excited. I repeat that I don’t 
hke the kind of reputation that he has. He is one of 
those foreigners who don’t think of an3rthing else but 
of running after women.” 

“ And who says so ? ” 

“ Who ? . . . Everybody.” 

“ But who in particular ? ” 

“ Oh ... I don’t know, Jimmy Clare, Billy Horton 
Macy . . .” 

“ And those are the men on whose words you form 
your opinion ? I hope you don’t form your opinion 
as hghtly in business matters. What do they know 
about Mr. Lore ? ” 

“ They know what everybody knows. I don’t base 
my opinion on theirs. They don’t form mine nor the 


99 


THE PASSEE-BY 

public’s opinion, but they voice public opinion. And 
that is enough for me. Your friend, Ehzabeth Glen- 
do ver, in Washington hasn’t gained much by her 
friendship with Mr. Lore. I don’t wish the same to 
happen to you. For nothing else but that I object 
to your making a fool of yourself. I don’t suppose 
that you could conceive of my objecting on any other 
grounds.” 

“ Elizabeth ! But they are crazy ! Speak of women 
gossiping ! I think you men in your clubs would beat 
a provincial congregation of old maids.” 

She laughed without mirth. 

“You may laugh. I don’t discuss the soundness of 
gossip. I only state its existence and its consequences. 
They are both sufficiently telling in your society — in 
any society,” he corrected himself, regretting the 
personahty indulged in with too evident a display of 
spite. “ They are both sufficiently telling in any society 
to deserve serious consideration if you make of social 
life your life. In an artificial farce such as society is, 
artificial rumours become serious. You cannot take 
the former seriously and dispose lightly of the latter. 
It’s all one thing.” 

“ Oh, Fred,” she said, assuming a bored air. “ You 
perorate against society like a playright for the gallery. 
I am sure that’s the kind of things people say who 
want to get into it and cannot. Society a farce, 
society immoral. ...” 

“ I haven’t said immoral, have I ? It isn’t im- 
moral, thank God ! How could it be ? It lives under 
a glass bell. That’s just why mere appearances have 
to be considered as seriously as if they were realities. 
I don’t want him to keep on calling on you — ^that’s all.” 


100 


THE PASSEE-BY 

Had she been pinched sharply she could not have 
felt a hveher irritation. She looked hard into his eyes 
this time, flaunting every bit of righteousness that 
she found in her conscience. 

“ Do you wish me to tell him that you object to his 
seeing me ? Speak of dignity ! That’s an admission 
that will show ofl your dignity and mine, and what 
kind of an opinion you have of my character ! ” 

He smiled. At that moment she hated him and 
despised him, despised him for the concentration of 
all his ambition, all his aspirations, all his intelligence 
on the gain of money, leaving him only the power of a 
brutal authority to influence her. 

He still smiled. “ I have only spoken of appearances, 
not of reahties. And my objection is against your 
making a fool of yourself. I have already said, you 
don’t suppose I object on any other ground. Haven’t 
I said that ? ” 

Her eyes strayed away from his, and she hfted her 
shoulders. She regretted her outburst, which had only 
unduly increased the importance of the object under 
discussion. Indifference would have been so much 
better. 

Her outburst had, in fact, touched to the quick a 
sore spot in him, enhvening his instinctive antipathy 
for this man whom he had barely seen. He knew that 
she was controUing herself not to show how much that 
worthless creature meant to her, and this irritated 
him deep down where a humiliation which he had never 
suspected of being able to feel chafed him bitterly. 
But instinctively he refrained from any aggressiveness, 
from a severity exceeding that required by the mere 
motive that he had advanced. His calm and his 


101 


THE PASSEK-BY 

moderation had given him an advantage over her 
emotional impulsiveness. He had better value such 
an advantage and follow it up. 

“ When have I asked you anything unreasonable ? 
I don’t want him to come here assiduously as he has 
been doing. There are lots of ways in which a woman 
with your tact can discourage that sort of attention. 
You may not be at home for him most of the time. 
Eventually I wish him to stop coming altogether. 
I will leave that to you. I will rdy on you for it. 
Do you understand ? — unless you should prove that 
I can’t — rely — do you understand ? Then I’ll have 
to help you. Do you understand ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And now let’s go and dress for dinner.” 

“If we are the last to come in at the Newarks will 
you kindly explain that it was your fault and not 
mine ? ” On that she sailed out of the room. 


IX 


I T was four days later, and she was returning from 
a week-end visit at Elsbury Park. Lore had been 
there. 

In the train all of her was concentrated in the 
recollection of the event which had revealed her to 
herself. He loved her. Had she not always known 
it ? And yet what a power of light in the words that 
told what she knew. It seemed to her as if she had 
gone to Elsbury Park on Saturday with the premoni- 
tion of the event awaiting her there, so inevitable it 
appeared now. And yet yesterday . . . that single 
day had dissolved, abohshed the woman that she had 
been until then, and created the woman that she was 
now. In the rebirth she had said little. “ There is a 
worship that is complete in itself, that doesn’t ask 
for anything, that you can allow without fear, that 
raises me and holds me up to the best that’s in me. 
You can’t be offended by my telHng you this.” 

The recollection of these words led to that of his 
fervid whisper. Then she closed her eyes and she 
saw him vividly. No, she could not be offended. 
She could only be happy, happy, happy, if she inspired 
such a love as that. 

Her eyes closed ; she abandoned herself to the 
warmth in which she had felt as though flowering 
during this whole visit at Elsbury Park. His being 


102 


103 


THE PASSEK-BY 

there unexpectedly, his delicate, ever-present atten- 
tions . . . and then that look of his when she had seen 
his soul in his eyes, and the fervour of his whisper that 
had made her feel her impending fate approaching its 
fulfilment. “ I knew,” he had said. “ I knew your 
lonehness. I have always seen it Hke a diadem 
crowning your beauty. It was what attracted me 
to you from the very first.” This had been hke a 
caress of pure tenderness. True, true, true ! What 
an intuition ! Lonely ... so she was. How he had 
understood her ! More than she had understood her- 
self. All her yearnings in the void, this was lonehness. 

. . . And he had seen it when she had not. He had 
revealed her to herself. It was wonderful. She had 
felt as though emerging winged after a torpid crawhng 
in a long twihght. . . . 

The train was slowing up rapidly. “ Long Island 
City,” cahed aloud, made her open her eyes on the 
seats of the car already emptied, on ah the passengers 
standing in a line, pressed tightly toward the exit in 
their frenzy to be out. And a vague anxiety stole 
within her as a cold draught swept in from the open 
end of the car. She Hngered still in her seat, assailed 
by an intense regret at having already arrived, at 
having to break the thread of her recollections in which 
she had basked. 

As she walked from the train to the ferry, the 
intoxication that had sustained her since the previous 
afternoon fell from her. Something that was magic 
about it deserted her. It seemed really as if it had 
been a kind of intoxication. The same event which 
had set her throbbing with exultation seemed now to 


104 


THE PASSEE-BY 

draw a cause of anxiety from the practical ugliness of 
the station, the practical intentness of the crowd 
that jostled her ; from the unessential pause in the 
ferry-house, where the incongruous frenzy of haste 
came to a halt. Somebody somewhere started a 
catarrhal voice haranguing from a talking-machine, 
then it launched itself gurgling into a rag time tune. 
She guessed where it came from by the crowd collected 
round it. She watched the crowd mechanically, seek- 
ing distraction from the harsh breaking up of the 
magic mood in which she had lived. Some people 
hstened earnestly, others smiled in puerile content- 
ment. Suddenly they all rushed, every single in- 
dividuality lost, merged once more by the national 
frenzy of haste into a mere element choking the wide 
door that gaped hke a dam, flowing through it to the 
ferry. 

She walked through the whole length of the ferry 
on to the open, forward. There she stood facing the 
glamour of a clouded sunset sinking behind the 
castellated ridge of New York. From the town, 
sharply outhned in gloom against the sinking glory of 
the sky, an icy blast swept across the river, struck her 
face until it ached. 

Beside her, in the middle of the ferry, she saw a 
team of black horses harnessed to an empty hearse. 
They shivered patiently. Behind the hearse, the 
closed carriages of a funeral party extended in a line 
to the aft end of the ferry, and the drivers having 
jumped down from their boxes to stretch their legs, 
chatted gaily in a group. She could see the vagueness 
of faces through the panes of the nearer carriage. 
What kind of a conversation could be going on in 


THE PASSER-BY 105 

there ? And as she looked at the gloomy procession 
she felt sorry for the horses of the hearse. They bore 
the brunt of the blast. Once, the nearer one turned 
its head slowly to that of its companion, attempting to 
exchange an amicable sniff. He must have felt lonely. 
But the other one just shook its head with a desolate 
resignation. Then both resumed their patient shivering. 

She felt like shivering too. The boat had left the 
shp, was churning the choppy river dead in the teeth 
of the icy blast. Existence was laying hold of her 
once more with its grip of frigid exactness. It pierced 
through her furs to her heart. It froze her upward 
from her feet. 

Yesterday at this time . . . yes, just at this time 
yesterday . . . she had soared winged into Hght and 
warmth. . . . 

At the landing at Thirty-fourth Street, as she 
followed the footman to her carriage, she felt Hke a 
captured deserter. Once in her carriage she struggled 
against this feehng, but she could not escape the 
contemplation of two images which symboHzed two 
opposite states : the image of Lore and that of Fred. 
They confronted her simultaneously, one for her to 
choose, the other imposing itself with the power of 
unavoidable authority. She closed her eyes, no more 
to abandon herself to the evocation of an unforgettable 
moment, but to prepare herself for the existence that 
was seizing her with its grip of frigid exactness. 

Yesterday at this time . . . echoed once more her 
thought. And yesterday receded to an infinite dis- 
tance, became a clear line of serenity far, far on the 
horizon of her existence, overcast now by a leaden 
shadow. 


106 


THE PASSEE-BY 

She did not linger downstairs, but went straight to 
her room without asking if he had returned. There 
she drew her breath in a momentary respite. It was 
only momentary, unless he were still away. The fear 
of learning that he had returned paralysed the eager- 
ness of her wish to know. She could scarcely hope that 
he had delayed his visit to Pittsburg longer than he 
had intended. He was always so punctual ! She 
ended by ringing. Yes ... he had come back. . . . 

Then she surrendered herself to the reality that 
claimed her, straining in the effort to familiarize her- 
self with what confronted her Hke an alien. Would 
she be able to dissimulate enough to deceive him ? 
She felt as if her change must be stamped indelibly 
all over her. It was an automaton that moved about 
in her room accomplishing customary acts. How 
was she to bring back her own self to animate the 
automaton when he would ask her : “ Had a good 
time, Angela ? ” 

She never knew how much he saw and how much 
he didn’t see. At times lately she had seriously sus- 
pected that he saw reflected in the corner of his eye- 
glasses what was behind his back. At times he seemed 
to see nothing, at times she did not know which to fear 
most, his back or the ghtter of his eye-glasses focussed 
upon her. 

He fllled her mind now. She felt him through the 
apparent security of the walls and the locked door. 
All that she might interpose between him and herself 
became absolutely ephemeral, walls, or dissimulation, 
it was all one. If he chose to see, he would see. Try 
to evade him ? A mouse might as well try to evade a 
cat when it had once been in its paws. Oh, if they 


THE PASSEE-BY 107 

had only been dining out just to-night ! They might 
dine at Sherry’s though . . . that would be better 
than facing each other in the dining-room. Yes . . . 
she must ask him to take her out to dine at Sherry’s. 
Then she might parry his questions by remarks about 
the people round them ; he might spontaneously find 
a distraction in them too, and at any rate she would 
feel less self-conscious. It was vital, vital ! . . . 

She went herself to his room. If she waited it 
might be too late, he might not appear before dinner 
was served. 

Through the door she spoke : “ Fred. Let’s dine 
at Sherry’s. ... I . . . I . . . hadn’t thought of 
ordering the dinner to-night. Will you order the 
carriage ? ” 

“ So you are back ? All right ! ” came cheerfully 
through the door. 

And she returned to her room to dress for dinner, 
feehng better, comforted by having shattered the 
ominous spell. Hearing his voice also had comforted 
her, graduating the transition toward her facing the 
rest of him. 

“ Had a good time, Angela ? ” he asked, as he 
settled himself sohdly near her in the coupe, sitting on 
part of her gown. 

“ Yes ; it was a very nice party,” she answered 
with unusual zest, and without resenting his crushing 
her gown. 

“ Made you feel good, eh ? Who was there ? ” 

“ Yes, it did. I feel very well. It was a very 
amusing party ; the usual people, you know. And 
Margaret Remington, she imitated Sada Yakko and 
Sarah Bernhardt. She is really most amusing. And 


108 


THE PASSEE-BY 

you ? Are you pleased with your trip ? I hope things 
have turned out well. I mean your business things.” 

He laughed. 

“ My business things ! What else do you think 
I would have gone for. A pretty girl ? I’ve got a 
mind it wouldn’t be a bad scheme to make you a bit 
jealous though ! Not half so bad. Eh ? . . . You 
don’t hke to answer. I think I’ll do it some of these 
days when I have time to spare.” He laughed again. 
“ Would you be jealous ? I wonder whether there is 
jealousy in your composition.” 

She smiled vaguely in an effort of seeming response. 

“ Have you thought what to order for dinner ? ” 
she asked, still smiling. 

“ You naughty girl ! You are ! . . . My ! ... as 
if I wasn’t up to your tricks ! So you don’t like to 
answer, eh ? You don’t like to please me by saying 
that you would be jealous. . . .” He slipped an arm 
around her waist. 

Her veins ran cold. “ Please,” she protested. 
“ Don’t, don’t, you are tearing my gown ! ” 

“ Very well. I will respect your gown. I remember 
the time when ...” 

“Now look ! ” She was tugging at the part of her 
gown on which he had been sitting. “ Do you want 
me to appear at Sherry’s with my gown all crushed ? ” 
She had taken the recovered portion in one hand, 
shaking it gently. “ I hate to look untidy ! ” 

“ All right, all right, all right.” He lifted his head, 
and from the tone of his voice she inferred his look of 
jocose superiority. He didn’t mind her fretfulness. 
He could wait. Whatever he was after he waited for, 
if he had to, and got it. 


109 


THE PASSER-BY 

The icy blast that had struck her on the ferry until 
her face ached swept through her veins now. She 
wrapped herself tightly in her fur cloak with an in- 
stinctive act of self -protection. She appealed to her 
thought for safety. Her thought was not benumbed, 
on the contrary she found herself thinking very 
swiftly, but disconnectedly. Ideas whizzed about 
like snakes, of which she only saw the disappearing 
tails. 

They did not talk again until they reached Sherry’s. 
But his words, that she felt continuously latent in 
their silence, unnerved her. She was glad to get out, 
to have an instant to herself in the cloak-room. She 
must collect herself, devise some scheme without flaws. 
He never missed a flaw. 

When she came out to join him she had a headache. 
The icy wind on the ferry had caused it. 

“ What a peach ! You do look well ! ” he greeted 
her. And he walked a little ahead of her, toward the 
dining-room, with a certain swagger that always 
irritated her, not unhke, she thought, the swagger of 
a good Siegfried, irresistibly competent in everything. 

“ No appetite ? ” he exclaimed, as the oysters 
were served, and his voice, his eyebrows knitted, 
betrayed a Hvely disappointment. “ What’s the 
matter ? ” 

“ Nothing, nothing, just a headache. I suppose it 
was stupid of me to stand outside on the ferry. Such 
a cold wind ! ” 

“ Of course it was stupid. Waiter ! Here bring 
two Martinis. You caught cold. . . . But we’ll fix 
that. When did it come on ? At once ? Driving 
from the station ? ” 


no 


THE PASSEE-BY 

“ Yes. I felt it the moment I got into the close 
carriage.” 

“ Two glasses of champagne will set you straight. 
But you must eat something. You needn’t be hungry 
to eat oysters. Then, I’ve ordered grouse. Wasn’t 
it thoughtful of me ? I telephoned to have it the way 
you like it.” 

Again she smiled paUidly, as if in an effort to please 
him. It occurred to her that she was hke Gretchel 
being stuffed by the witch anxious to turn her into a 
good morsel. But this idea left her mirthless. 

“ So you had a good time. Was it a large party ? ” 

“Yes. A very successful party. Jimmy Clare was 
most amusing too.” 

“ Who else was there ? ” 

“ The Van Ordens, Mr. Emory, the Barries. You 
know, the usual set of the Brandt- Johnsons. I wished 
you’d heard Jimmy Clare. Did I teU you about the 
lunch at Lady Selden’s the other day ? When she 
asked the Marquise de Chare to meet the Edges ? ” 

She was suddenly loquacious in her eagerness to 
avoid the complete enumeration of the guests at 
Elsbury Park. He hstened to her, attracted by her 
vivacity, his own vitahty all turned into a greedy 
appreciation of her. This mood came to him intensely, 
most often determined by a pause in the absorption 
of his energies by business, an intermittent recurrence 
that seized him with the violence of a storm. His 
return from Pittsburg left him in a suspense concern- 
ing a deal after which he had been straining without 
a rest for the last fortnight, the negotiation of a loan 
conducted with the ability of the man walking on a 
tight-rope. Some unaccountable accident had seemed 


THE PASSEE-BY 111 

to lengthen the tight-rope every time he thought that 
he had reached the end of it. Now, however, he could 
do nothing more than to wait for the answer, which, 
also unaccountably, he had been unable to obtain on 
the spot. And in the void of this suspense his senses 
had suddenly flared up at the sound of her voice through 
the door. The insinuation of that clear, slender 
voice through the door had started a thriU in his blood 
which had been the spark kindling the conflagration. 
This proposal of dining at Sherry’s en tete-d-tete came 
hke an unexpected release from his useless brooding, 
hke a reward for his relentless endeavours. 

As she repeated Jimmy Clare’s version of the lunch 
at Lady Selden’s, he watched the animation colouring 
her face, her Hps sipping the champagne, the dark 
brilliancy of her eyes. The champagne must be doing 
her good. While interested in her account she was 
eating too. He it was who felt as if every mouthful 
choked him. It might have been cotton- wool for 
all the flavour that his palate found in it. All his 
perceptions were atrophied save those by which he 
vibrated at her nearness. And yet, in this defection 
of all his normal perceptions, one did adhere to him 
sharp with the sharpness of his desire, taking notice 
of every barrier interposed between her and himself 
by a resistance that he had grown accustomed to find 
in her. These barriers were so far insignificant, a 
headache contracted in driving home from the ferry, 
contradicted by her previous statement of feehng 
very well in starting from the house and presumably 
forgotten at present, judging by the vivacity of her 
talk. 

He laughed with an edge of nervous excitement in 


112 THE PASSEE-BY 

his voice at the end of her account of Lady Selden’s 
lunch. 

“ Have you asked the Russian to your scalp dinner 
yet ? ” 

He didn’t really care, but anything was good that 
could humour her. 

No, she had not. But she would, and Kamensky 
came into her memory with a clear distinction of his 
own, appeahng to her need of confiding by his dis- 
interested comprehension. She could not evoke his 
features clearly, but she felt in his personahty some- 
thing ecclesiastic. “ I wonder why,” she questioned 
mentally. “ How absurd ! ” 

“ Why do you smile ? ” he asked. 

“ Just a silly idea.” 

“ What ? ” 

‘ ‘ N othing. J ust silliness . ’ ’ 

“ It’s nice to be silly at times. I feel awfuUy silly 
to-night.” He knew that he must have something 
roguish about him, and that to explain it that way 
would make her less diffident. But at his remark he 
saw her clouding. At this he concealed his irritation. 
“ Don’t you think it’s nice to let oneself go every now 
and then and be downright silly ? ” 

In a way she felt painfully touched by his desperate 
attempts at seduction. The idea of his being down- 
right silly ! As well expect a hawk to have a sense 
of humour. “ Yes. ... It is nice. ... I wish I 
could. Oh, this headache ! . . . it’s just hke a 
hammer on my temple.” 

“ It comes and goes, eh ? ” 

“ No, it doesn’t go,” she protested with some im- 
patience. 


THE PASSEE-BY 


113 


He did not insist. It was wiser not to. But why 
did she treat him that way every time ? Supposing 
he had behaved hke most married men — what then ? 
She would only have had herself to blame. Would she 
have been jealous ? And in his controlled irritation 
the idea of her being brought to blame herseK was not 
devoid of a temptation insinuated by spite. One 
suffered more for one’s virtues than for one’s faults. 
Then a smile came on his face too, a smile in which 
she saw no cause of distress. 

“ What are you smiling for ? ” 

She seemed to have forgotten the hammer on her 
temples. He must keep her from remembering it as 
long as he could. “ I was thinking of the advantage 
of dissipation. I was thinking of Tom Maguire. He 
says he’ll reform. Now, if everybody hasn’t tumbled 
over one another to help him out of the hole in which 
he’s got himself. Old Billy Horton Macy offered him 
a job. Price has put in some money. It all comes 
from his having been dissipated. Did you ever hear 
of everybody tumbhng over one another to help a hard, 
plodding man ? ” 

She smiled too, a decidedly warm smile, in which he 
saw the complete obhvion of the hammer. Then she 
said : “ That’s nice. That’s love.” 

“ Then if I’ll go in for dissipation you’ll love me ? ” 

“ My dear, why do you say such absurd things ! . . . 
Ough ! Isn’t it hot and stuffy here. Hadn’t we 
better go ? ” 

“ All right.” And he asked for the check. 

“ Why are you so ... so disagreeable ? ” he said, 
as the carriage rolled off. 

“ Disagreeable ? . . . I disagreeable ? ” 

H 


114 


THE PASSEE-BY 


“ You know what I mean.” 

“ If you mean something that you don’t say, I am 
afraid I don’t.” 

“Angela. ...” 

Why does he lower his voice now ... as if people 
in the street might hear him, she thought, shuddering 
at the intensity of his whisper. 

“Angela. ...” 

“ Yes, Fred.” 

“ I want to be nice . . . and you snub me so. 
When you asked me through the door to dine out, 
it sounded so nice of you. I was so glad. And then 
. . . Why do you treat me hke that ? ” 

“ Treat you how ? ” 

“ Just so. You understand perfectly. Only you 
try to make it as hard as you know how. I suppose 
you find it pleasanter that way.” 

Then the silence lasted until they reached home. 
He wasn’t going to waste his powder and give himself 
away. 

She started upstairs slowly, with a mad desire to 
rush, to shut her door on him and lock him out. 

He followed her as slowly, but just avoiding the 
train of her gown. 

They both reached her room sauntering with ap- 
parent indifference. There she stopped, faced him, 
and said : “ Good night, Fred. I shall be so glad to 
be in my bed. Ough ! this headache.” 

Very close to her, he fixed his eyes on hers. She 
saw his pupils enlarged through his eye-glasses. He 
had taken both her arms above the elbow, and held 
her squarely under his gaze : “ There are times when 
one tells fibs. There are times when one lies. Words 


115 


THE PASSER-BY 

don’t count as much at the time when they are spoken. 
Can you swear that you’ve had a headache all this 
time ? ” 

She hesitated. “ Oh, you hurt me ! ” 

“ No, dear, you know I don’t. This is a fib — ^hke 
the other.” 

He let her go, holding her only by one hand, at 
the touch of which he swallowed dry in the surge of 
his craving for her. She went into her room and he 
followed her, her hand in his. 


She stood barefooted in her room, alone now, a 
horror to herself. Oh, to pray ! But she had ceased 
long ago to pray. The girl who prayed and beheved 
in the justice of God, in the existence of God, had 
gone long ago, never, never to be again. She knew 
where the old Bible was ; there on the top of the 
httle bookshelf, where it had presided ignored over 
the small collection of books that lulled her to sleep. 
But she could not touch the Bible now. The mere 
thought of opening it terrified her. 

If it should affect her at all to read it, it would 
be by bringing up the ghost of what she had been. 
And she couldn’t have stood facing it. Oh, where 
was she to turn ? 

On her bare feet she wandered about the room, 
and it was an ahen room. Its famihar comfort had 
turned into a sardonic complacency. The softness 
of the rug under her feet was hke the mocking flattery 
of a servile accomphce ! Oh, to walk on nails * Oh, 
for burning coals ! Oh, for truth with all its severity ! 
Where was it ? Did it exist ? 


116 


THE PASSEE-BY 


And there were people who were afraid of death ! . . . 

Oh, death ! You, I can pray to. Then instinctively 
she knelt by her bed. You merciful bearer of infinite 
rest, come, come, come ! Close my eyes for the never- 
ending sleep. I am tired. I am so tired ! I am 
tired hke a lost child who has wandered too long. I 
am frightened. I am alone. I am so alone ! Come, 
death, come ! Lay me at rest for ever and ever and 
ever. . . . 


X 


T he first time when he called rather late in the 
afternoon, hoping to find Mrs. Moore alone, 
Kamensky dropped into a dwindling party gathered 
to see her portrait by Grant, which had just returned 
from an exhibition. 

Mr. Emory was still there, and so was Mrs. Larkin, 
and the charming Mrs. Belerose, who in spite of her 
dark hair never failed to impress him as if it were 
powdered, so much did the grace of her type suggest 
that of the eighteenth century — an impression which 
her manners and the graceful dignity of her mental 
attitude confirmed. 

Mrs. Moore took him up to the portrait hung in the 
next room, and there introduced him to a middle-aged 
lady with grey hair and to a tall girl over- well dressed 
and almost aggressive by her youthful good looks. 

The portrait was a masterpiece of psychology. 
Grant had surpassed himself. No elaboration was 
visible. The image might have been blown where it 
stood as by a great breath of instantaneous creation. 

“ Don’t you wish you could paint ? ” said the 
middle-aged lady to Kamensky. “ I always wish I 
could. It must be such a delightful occupation.” 
And her tone suggested the desire of an agreeable 
pastime for rainy days when it was too wet to go out 
of doors for a walk or even for a drive. 

117 


118 


THE PASSEE-BY 

Mrs. Moore was escorting Mrs. Belerose and Mrs. 
Larkin, who were leaving, then the tall girl turned her 
back to the picture as if to impress better the middle- 
aged lady, Kamensky, and Mr. Emory, who had joined 
them, with what had just occurred to her. “ I would 
never be painted by Grant. He always brings out one’s 
worse points. I would be afraid to be painted by him.” 

Kamensky wondered at the nefarious psychological 
complications with which she flattered herself that 
she was endowed. But the middle-aged lady agreed 
with her, and so did Mr. Emory. 

He had had his portrait painted in Germany the 
year before by an artist who had painted the German 
Emperor and several kings in shooting costume. 
His own he had had done in a Highlander’s dress, kilt 
and all, with a rifle in his hand and the moor that he 
rented in Scotland as a background. He did not 
mention his regret at not having a family, as this 
picture would have made a capital ancestor’s por- 
trait in future. But he announced that the artist 
was coming to New York, “ and he says that my 
picture is the best he ever painted.” 

“ Who says so ? ” asked Kamensky. 

“ He says so.” 

The middle-aged lady was quite carried away with 
the idea of such a portrait. She wished that her 
husband would have himself painted that way, and 
she deplored the lack of imagination of modern 
painters who represented people in the clothes that 
they wore. She had had her own portrait painted a 
few years before when big puffy sleeves were fashion- 
able ; now it looked dowdy, and she had had to relegate 
it to a spare room. 


THE PASSER-BY 


119 


“It is only during a short transitional period that 
your portrait will look dowdy,” said Kamensky. 
“If it is well painted, at the appointed time it will 
look old, odd, and quaint, and eventually even austere 
and antique. It would be difficult for an artist to 
simulate a period anterior to that in which the picture 
is painted, by adopting costumes of the past, since 
people change their faces from time to time, and 
women even the proportions of their skeletons. When 
they wore frills round their necks they had undoubtedly 
longer necks. Later they sloped their shoulders. 
Now they carry square shoulders. It would be hard 
to say what they will do next.” 

In talking of pictures they had strolled away from 
the portrait and had rallied round the tea-table, where 
Mrs. Moore offered Kamensky a cup of tea. He took 
it from her because he was disposed to feel a symbolical 
communion in this act, although he feared from the 
delicately ravaged look of the table that the tea would 
be too strong for him. He liked very weak tea. But 
he was surprised, with a sense of gratefulness to Mrs. 
Moore, by the fragrance of the cup she had given him. 

“ And how do you hke my portrait ? ” she said. 

“ It will require more time for me to take it in than 
it took Grant to put it down.” 

Mr. Emory laughed, because he beheved that this 
answer was caustic. 

“ Mr. Kamensky couldn’t pay a better comphment 
to Grant,” explained Mrs. Moore. 

Still Mr. Emory was tickled by a restrained mirth. 
It was evolved in the confused depths of his con- 
sciousness by that sense of humour, that dry sense of 
humour, that helped him to go through life. 


120 


THE PASSEE-BY 

“ My dear ! You don’t mean to say that you think 
it flatters you ! ” exclaimed the grey-haired lady. 

“ I don’t want to be flattered.” 

“ Indeed, you needn’t,” confirmed Kamensky with 
candid enthusiasm. 

Mrs. Moore blushed sHghtly. Kamensky regretted 
to have altered the meaning of her utterance to one 
suggesting self-complacency.- 

“ Well, I will say this for him,” said the middle-aged 
lady, “ that he hasn’t given you bad points. You’ve 
heard of the portrait of Mrs. Higgs in Boston ? ” 

“ I have ! ” rushed in the tall girl. “ A friend of 
hers told me. About the nails, you mean . . .” 

“Yes. Let me finish, please,” snapped the grey- 
haired lady, who was obsolete in her notions and would 
not admit of being ruled by youth. She had started 
the subject, she would tell the story. “ Mrs. Higgs, 
so I’ve heard, bites her nails so that her Angers give 
you the creeps. Well, Grant painted her hands so 
cleverly that all her finger-tips are hidden in a blue 
fox boa. But he did it only to give her away by the 
expression on her face. People who have never heard 
of Mrs. Higg’s existence will pick out her portrait as 
that of a woman who bites her nails — just by the look 
in her eyes. Now, don’t you call that too much ? ” 
There was a silence, during which everybody expected 
some one else to say something. Then the grey- 
haired lady rose to go, and all did the same. From 
the moment, however, that she stood holding Mrs. 
Moore by the hand, she still lingered on until the 
weakest hnk in the slender chain of her thoughts gave 
way, when she left with the satisfaction of the com- 
pleted achievement. 


121 


THE PASSER-BY 

Kamensky felt it incumbent upon himself to leave 
too. It was almost seven o’clock, Mrs. Moore might 
wish to dress for dinner. But while he had come 
without any definite intention, he had expected to find 
her alone, a condition to which he had looked forward 
vaguely as propitious to his hopes and consistent with 
the fine of his destiny. So that when Mr. Emory’s 
back had ecHpsed itself, stooping not inelegantly 
behind the screen by the door, he wavered between 
his sense of duty and his wish, and said : “I feel as if 
I hadn’t seen you at all. But it is late. ... I am 
afraid I must ...” 

To which she answered : “ Don’t go yet ! ” because 
she was herself dining at home late, and she wished to 
see something of him. 

From what they had been able to say to each other 
at Lady Selden’s lunch, she had felt in him a dis- 
interested affinity with herself from which perhaps 
she could draw some assistance in her distressing 
perplexity. 

When she had met him that day he had touched the 
memory of her faith in noble and beautiful possibilities. 
Such a faith was alien to her then. It had lain torpid 
under the anodine of society, taken to benumb her 
spiritual distress. But since that day, a.pure love had 
forced her into clear-sightedness by kindling a gfimmer- 
ing light that she had thought extinguished, and now 
her faith in what was noble and beautiful was re- 
asserting itself only to intensify her aversion to what 
she was. 

“ And so you like my portrait ? ” she said. “ I am 
so glad.” 

They walked up to the portrait. 


122 


THE PASSER-BY 

“ It is almost uncanny,” he said. “ There you are, 
one part of yourself which is a perfect symbol of all of 
you. Almost all your beauty there for ever.” 

“Oh, don’t ! You can say better things than 
flatteries.” 

He saw by her face that she was evidently not in 
the mood that he had hoped. But as it was in his 
nature to mould his mood on that of the woman whom 
he loved, he said : “I didn’t mean to flatter you. I 
was merely stating something so evident that . . . well, 
of course ... it was superfluous.” 

“ Evident things are so tiresome. They are always 
masks.” 

“Yes. That is true very often, but ...” 

“ Always, always ! We have to wear them for 
self -protection as we wear motoring veils. . . . One 
must to go fast, or to be fast.” 

“ It is true,” he smiled. 

“ Of course ! But one gets tired of going fast for 
ever.” 

“ Why don’t you rest . . . now ? ” 

“ I am resting,” she said, setthng herself on the 
sofa. “ I want to, at any rate. That’s why I didn’t 
let you go. I wanted to see you. Wasn’t Clare funny 
the other day ? I mean when he didn’t try to be. 
I had just got away from society with you when he 
dragged me back to Newport, where everything was 
getting too expensive ! What you said then interested 
me particularly. You said something very comfort- 
ing . . . well, something as if the best in oneself 
never died. That what had once been there could be 
silent, but that it could never be lost. Did I under- 
stand right ? ” 


123 


THE PASSEE-BY 

“Yes. That is what I believe.” 

“ And do you really believe that it can reappear 
again ? I wonder if you understand. . . . With some 
of us women, I am afraid that a certain beauty of hfe — 
of the way of looking at hfe is so closely woven with 
the innocence — with the ignorance, if you like — of a 
happy girlhood that it vanishes later with a more com- 
plete knowledge of life such as it is. That it vanishes 
for ever. Life has so many distracting claims . . . 
below the level of what we expected, that what it was 
to us is remembered hke the beautiful unrealities of a 
dream. We are no more what we were. I feel as if 
some of us were but partial survivals of better creatures 
passed out of actual existence, vanished, lost for ever. 
It is rather sad ! . . .” 

“ Sad ? ... It would be sad ! ” and he looked at 
her, deeply moved by her confidence in him, by her 
need of confiding, by so great a humility, for such 
seemed to him her abdication of the majesty with 
which she was invested by her beauty. Words of 
reverent tenderness welled up to his lips ; he repressed 
them, but something infantile, an eagerness very 
simple, very primitive, shone in his face as he spoke : 
“ I think I do understand. Some of us men too have 
known that instant of perfect balance, of spontaneous 
acquiescence in life. I know, and when it has passed 
one looks back to it as to a magical phase belonging to 
another life, to another world.” 

“ Yes, yes ! ” she said, alert with interest. “ Well ? 
Isn’t it a dream ? You don’t mean to say that one can 
feel like that again ? ” 

“ Exactly hke that — no. But I believe that a higher 
degree of balance and a fuller acquiescence in life can 


124 


THE PASSEE-BY 

be attained. In looking back at that period of life 
it appears to me like a scheme. Ourselves grown up 
to a scheme in which our future is vaguely designed 
in mere possibilities. We find in ourselves the sugges- 
tion of future possibilities still exempt from the errors 
attending the action by which they shall be fulfilled. 
It is this passive purity which gives to that phase of 
fife the beautiful quahty of a dream. Do you see ? 
But then that balance in beauty which you regret 
is only shaken because the turmoil of travail begins 
toward a higher step. And purity of a more valuable 
kind will result once more, like the hmpidity of elements 
that have undergone the chaos of elaboration.” 

“ Do you really believe that ? . . . I wish I could. 
You believe that fife has a meaning then ? ” 

“ I do.” 

“ And all the horrors ? All the dreadful things one 
hears about ? ” 

“ I know — I know. . . .” 

“ How do you explain them ? What is their mean- 
ing ? ” 

“ I don’t know if what satisfies me would satisfy 
you. What we can explain will always be infinitely 
small compared with what we cannot. If we could 
explain what we imagine as being all now, we would 
have grown to grasp an immensity that would again 
dwindle to insignificance compared with the un- 
explained stretching once more around us in a new 
horizon. Infinity keeps its secret in time and in 
space ” — he smiled — “ but what of it is close around 
us is stamped with a reassuring sign, for myself at 
least, that of an infallible order. It is on this in- 
fallible order that we must pin our faith. It is 


125 


THE PASSEE-BY 

manifest to us in every direction. Whenever we 
follow it, it sustains us. We only flounder and fall by 
straying away from it, but then there it is, always 
within our reach for us to cling to. Only then, 
instead of realizing that we have strayed away from 
it, we deny its existence. Then we use the words 
chance or hazard as the names of the factors which 
make up life, unaware that those words only mean 
non-existing nothingness.” 

“ I quite see what you mean,” she said, “ and I do 
believe in it as you do. The laws of nature are im- 
placable.” 

“ Infallible, undeviating,” he corrected deferentially. 

“ Well, even as you say. But they work only for 
botanists and chemists. . . . So-so for weather pro- 
phets. . . .” 

“ Don’t be unfair,” he smiled, “ and be sure of this, 
that everything which to our knowledge does exist 
is subject to the same infaUible, undeviating order. 
Every one of your feehngs, of your impulses, of your 
thoughts, even when they remain secret within you, 
have a weight and a value with as inevitable a con- 
sequence as that of an explosion or of an earthquake. 
Now, mind you, if your impulses and your thoughts 
can’t be touched or seen, so the force of gravitation 
can’t be touched or seen.” 

“ I wish I could beheve as you befleve. Life seems 
to have so httle sense.” 

“ WeU, let me tell you. What makes you wish as 
you say, is within you, that which can be silent but 
cannot be lost. Once, when you were a girl, it was 
not silent, and then every day came full of beautiful 
meanings for you.” 


126 THE PASSER-BY 

She blushed deeply, and looked at him without a 
word. 

“ Do you mind my having said that ? ” He was 
afraid of having been brutal. “ I didn’t mean to 
hurt you.” 

“ You couldn’t.” 

“ And . . . can you believe me ? You see, you 
must be clear to yourself. I understand how difficult 
it is. But how can you otherwise do that simple 
justice to yourself which in many cases we want to do 
to others ? That of being sincere.” 

“ Sincere with myself ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

It seemed to her she had heard this before. When ? 
Then she remembered Lore’s enunciation of the prin- 
ciple that to be sincere with oneseK was better than 
to be sincere with others, the former including the 
latter. Now only she understood what he had really 
meant, and his image assumed a grandeur unseen 
before. “ Yes . . . yes . . she murmured, moved 
by this revelation. 

There fell a silence. This revelation cast now a 
gravity on the words which had preceded it, giving 
them life, but a disturbing weight. It was disturb- 
ing to find that what she had always looked upon as 
abstractions turned out to be such rigid factors of 
life. Still, since her peace was attacked she wished 
to know more. Kamensky attracted her and per- 
suaded her, but at the same time made her a little 
uneasy by his way of looking at things. Yet from no 
one but him could she hope to find assistance in her 
perplexity, if only she could lead up to the exposition 
of her case without giving herself away. 


THE PASSER-BY 


127 

“You are initiating me into something that rather 
unsettles one. Do you know it ? I mean to say that 
it rather does away with a happy-go-lucky way of 
looking at Hfe. It nails things down to a rather 
alarming precision where one least expected it.” 

“ I am not telling you anything new. The in- 
terpretation may be new, that’s all. I remember a 
dressmaker telling me that there were no new fashions, 
but only old fashions revived. I’ll send you some 
books as old as the history of the world, and you will 
find in them what has been given out in different 
fashions since.” 

“ I would like to read them. But you must tell me 
more. I feel as if I could understand more from what 
you teU me than by reading. Beside,” she smiled, 
“ it is no use putting questions to books. Then again, 
they all start from some assumption that we must 
accept, and that I can’t when it appears too clearly 
arbitary. Do you see what I mean ? Well, the very 
fact that there are as many different doctrines offered 
as there are tastes to fit, makes me sceptical about 
them all. Their quantity and variety cheapen them. 
Can they all be true ? And if not, which is the true 
one ? Do you know what I mean ? The choice is 
convenient, but it is something more than convenience 
that I would hke.” 

“ I understand perfectly. You feel something too 
practical in it to leave room for the sublime. You 
feel something of the cynicism that prompted Ruskin 
— ^yes, Ruskin, I think — ^into saying that rehgions were 
made to keep the mob quiet.” 

“ Did he ? It sounds so unlike him ! ” 

“ But there is another way of looking at it. It’s 


128 


THE PASSEE-BY 


not only the mob that needs a religion. The whole 
of humanity, since the world began, has had to hve 
by some religion, in the same way that at every age 
man must live by some material food var3dng with his 
age. This though to me is exactly the proof of the 
intrinsic value of every religion, of its sublime virtue, 
of its divine origin — divine because it springs from the 
divine in us. I am afraid I am lecturing you.” 

“No, no. Goon.” 

“ Very well. You see, there are two points which 
seem clear to me. Both drawn from our experience 
and leading us beyond it. One is that so far as we 
can see demand imphes supply. A demand for which 
there is no supply gets atrophied. This is simple, 
isn’t it ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, the aspirations, the beHefs in a world beyond 
the actual that are and have been expressed by 
savages as well as by civihzed races in all times, I con- 
sider as a demand which imphes a supply. Now, mind 
you, I don’t mean to say that the supply is like what 
savages or civilized races have imagined it, more or 
less exalted according to the development of the race — 
no. But I can’t help thinking, and this is the second 
point, that whatever we imagine is a more or less 
faint reflection of some portion of what is. However 
much we can imagine, we imagine less, not more, tuan 
what is. Whatever we can imagine must have its 
real counterpart somewhere. We cannot create. 
There is no such thing as human creation ; we can 
see, we can understand, we can divine, we can con- 
struct by combining what exists, but we cannot create. 
We cannot conceive something that is not. That is 


129 


THE PASSEE-BY 

what leads me to think that we may have an experi- 
ence transcending that of our body, but with a recol- 
lection of it dimmed, coarsened by the body. Do you 
see what I mean ? ” 

“Yes . . . yes,” she said gravely. 

He felt a rare exaltation. She was letting herself 
be led by him into his and her world, she was opening 
her eyes on herself and on the world which was hers. 
There was a silence, during which he looked at her 
intensely. 

“ If only . . .” she sighed, then paused. 

“ If only what ? ” 

“ If only one could always be guided. You have 
made me see things at which I would never have ar- 
rived by myself. But is it enough to know the four 
broad points of the compass ? How about the in- 
numerable minor degrees between them ? ” 

“ There is a rule.” 

“ Which ? ” 

“ Something tremendously simple and tremendously 
difficult. Action more than thought. To do far 
more than to think. To do the right thing every time 
we have no doubt as to which is the right or wrong, 
even when things are so small that they seem in- 
different. Hbwever wide a divergence can grow 
between a right and a wrong course it can be almost 
imperceptible at its origin. But we are so careless 
about small things when they go against our grain. 
Heavens ! We all are ! We say, ‘ I know this isn’t 
quite right ; however, it isn’t an important thing after 
aU. It won’t lead me any further, and then I’ll make 
up for it in this or that way.’ But we really never 
know where anything may lead us, we really never 


I 


130 THE PASSER-BY 

know which is the important thing and which is not, 
while we do know the thing which is not quite right 
and that which is.” 

He paused and looked at her, pleased with himseK. 
She looked at him and beyond him rather dreamily, 
a little afraid that he might see in her eyes how closely 
he had touched her trouble. 

“ Isn’t it simple ? And — isn’t it difficult ? I tell 
you this, of which I am profoundly convinced, that it is 
in the doing of however small a thing which is right 
that we find every time a new sum of strength, a 
surer intelligence for the accomphshment of the next. 
It is in the forgetfulness of our individual interest 
before that which is right that we grow gradually 
to the vision which is called revelation, to a selflessness 
towering in power above the most reckless egotism.” 

She did not speak at once ; at last she admitted : 
“ I am afraid you are dreadfully right.” 

“ Honestly ? You really think so ? ” 

“ Honestly ! Only . . .” she sighed. “ What a 
pity we shouldn’t have met before.” 

At this his exaltation grew with a mad hope. “ I 
am a fatafist too among other things. So I am sure 
that we have met at the right time.” 

She glanced at him casually to mask the light dis- 
comfort that he gave her with this utterance. Was it 
only because he was a fatafist that he was sure of 
having met her at the right time ? Didn’t he allude 
to something else that he guessed ? But the candour 
of his eyes reassured her, reassured her so well that 
she spoke out an intimate thought : “I wish we had 
... I hope we have.” 

“ Of course ! You mustn’t doubt it.” 


131 


THE PASSER-BY 

“ Do you know that you invite confidence as no one 
I ever met before ? How admirably strong you 
are ! ” 

This homage went to his head. He looked at her 
unsteadily, searching for words to disclaim so high 
an honour, but he only stumbled upon expressions 
that seemed to convey a veiled condescension. Then 
he said : “Oh . . and smiled rather sheepishly. 

“ Yes, I mean it ! And it does me good to feel it. 
It makes me believe in the things you said. It might 
make me believe in myself.” 

“ Oh ! ” he again exclaimed, but with vivacity this 
time. 

“It is so,” she insisted quietly. “ I see things 
in a different way now. At any rate, I am nearer 
seeing them as they should be seen. But oh, life is 
difacult ! ” 

He bent his head in sympathy, as if under the 
weight of the difficulties that she was alluding to, and 
which out of delicacy he could not assume that he 
knew. 

“You mentioned the divergence of lines which go 
on widening after they have started from an impercep- 
tible difference. Well, isn’t life all that way ? And 
then what is one to do when the divergence has be- 
come a gap ? One can’t retrace one’s steps in life. 
It is against the rules of the game, isn’t it ? ” 

He met her quizzical, half-humorous look, attempt- 
ing with his to express all the comprehension that he 
was afraid to put into words, but this much he ven- 
tured to say : “The gap only exists when one tries 
to follow both diverging lines at once. That too is 
against the rules of the game. Sooner or later one is 


132 


THE PASSEE-BY 

bound to give it up. So it is better to choose one of 
the two as early as possible.” 

“ Yes, I suppose so.” Then she happened to look 
at the clock, and then her tone sounded suddenly 
perfunctory to him, and she herself withdrawn from 
his sphere of influence. 

To her it had suddenly occurred with a shock that 
Lore might be coming in at any moment, and that 
now she would have to act. She would have to begin 
to discourage him, or . . . 

“ I am afraid I have kept you down too late,” he 
said, rising. 

“ No ; you’ve made me think, and you must come 
again.” Her hand in his made him feel that she meant 
what she said. 

Once out in the street he hesitated as to which way 
to go. He would have liked to walk a long time away 
from people, to straighten himself inwardly. He 
wondered what he had said. Had he kept within a 
congruous measure ? He had a painful doubt about 
it. Led on by her questions he had preached, rather 
than spoken to her hke a lover. That way of his of 
talking in the abstract, of philosophizing barrenly, had 
been misplaced. He had probably missed a great 
opportunity to explain himself, how stupid of him ! 
And yet . . . 

On this he was starting to walk away when he saw 
Lore coming from round the corner. 

‘‘ Are you leaving ? ” Lore asked the next instant. 

“ Yes. I am afraid I have been staying rather late 
as it is. She must have wished to dress for dinner, 
and I kept on talking.” 

There was something in Lore’s appearance that jarred 


133 


THE PASSEE-BY 

on him. Something offensively buoyant that seemed 
proclaimed by his expression as well as by his impec- 
cable clothes. 

“ I’ll try my luck,” said Lore, and stepping up to 
the door he pressed the electric button. 

Kamensky watched him, amused now by his 
friend’s self-sufficiency. He liked the man with a 
special interest at times, feefing toward him hke a 
spectator toward a consummate actor who never 
forgot his part. 

The door opened and Lore disappeared in it with a 
“ So long ! ” that stunned him. 

Now Kamensky walked away fast enough, the 
“ so long ” ringing fike a mockery in his ears. Lore’s 
buoyancy offensively clear to him. Lore had come 
with the certainty of being received. That was 
why she had looked at the clock. . . . What better 
hint could she have given him of the opportunity of 
his leaving ? He had thought that it was because she 
wanted to dress. But no ! All she wanted was to be 
left to see Lore alone. 

His heart seemed to contract. There was a great 
disorder in his mind, stormed now by a new set of 
conceptions, before which his peace was routed in 
panic. 

He walked fast down Madison Avenue glaring at 
the paving stones as he went, mechanically avoiding 
stepping on the joints. 

And now they were together, they two. . . . 

Then it occurred to him that this might not be the 
first of such intimate meetings. He had never thought 
of that, not of the questionable character of such 
meetings. How far had they got ! The thought came 


134 


THE PASSEE-BY 

like a stab. He wished to struggle against it, but a 
savage curiosity made him seek what would hurt him 
most. He imagined their meeting which he had so 
very nearly spoiled. That was just what they would 
be saying to each other. Probably she would tell 
Lore how he had lectured her. Lore was not going 
to give her a lecture. Not he. He would laugh. She 
too would laugh with that gleam of mischief in her 
eyes that he knew so well. How that gleam cut 
through him now ! And he had forgotten it, carried 
away by his imbecile exaltation, uttering spiritual 
platitudes. 

Blind to what surrounded him he went, staring at 
the pavement, hitting it with his cane, bitten by the 
consciousness of having been ridiculous. He had 
bored her in the end. She must have thought that 
he would never go. 

Oh, what an ass ! And it was for Lore that he had 
spoken, for Lore that he had relieved her of any 
scruple that she might have had, for Lore that he had 
told her to follow one or the other line ! Of course, 
he knew now which she would choose ! . . . 

She was in love with Lore. Lore would know how 
to persuade her, how to induce her into a compromise. 
Love was credulous . . . passionate love was, and 
that was the way she would love — ^yes, passionately. 
Why should he have come to conceive the absence of 
passion as a perfection ? Repressing it in himself 
as if it had been an irreverence to her. What an 
idiot ! A dim-sighted priest, that was all he must 
have appeared to her, while doting on spiritual plati- 
tudes. Oh, her lips, her lips ! Yes, they were like 
kisses blossomed into flowers. And Lore . . . 


135 


THE PASSER-BY 

It was unbearable ! 

This less perfect image of her burned itself into his 
mind, its very imperfection lending her a sharper 
seduction. 

He attempted to think that he was indulging in 
gratuitous assumptions. She had been sincere in 
detaining him when he had pretended to leave at first, 
and when she had spoken of her doubts, of her lack of 
faith finding a comfort in his, she had derived a com- 
fort from what he had said then. The same that day 
at lunch, when they had discovered a mutual affinity 
As much as this she had admitted now. And then — 
that look at the clock ! And Lore coming round the 
corner. . . . 

There were two women in her, needing two kinds of 
worship. She took them separately since she could 
not find them together. Her eyes said one thing, 
and to that he had clung. Her lips . . . her hps ! 
They said another thing. But those lips, he had felt 
it an indiscretion to look at, as if they had betrayed 
what it was not in her power to conceal. And that he 
had ignored — idiot ! He had ignored that women 
wanted to be worshipped like idols and to love like 
bacchantes. . . . 

The last proposition induced so distressing an 
image that he groaned. He was going mad. 

Struggle as he might, a conviction won the battle 
against his wishes ; that it was in her to love that way 
when she loved, and that it was Lore whom she loved 
and not himseK. Lore had kindled that fire. Lore. . . . 

No, he couldn’t stand it ! 

But as fast and as far as he might go, he carried in 
him the fury from which he ran away. 


136 


THE PASSER-BY 

When he found himself at the Thirty-third Street 
entrance of the Waldorf, he hesitated between going 
in or going further, far away. All of him shrank in 
fear from being alone in his room, which he had left so 
bright with hopes. 

But he could not walk again. He was too tired to 
walk any more. He was worn out, sore all over inside. 
How deeply caught he was. He had never dreamed 
that it would be this way. How it hurt ! Where ? 
Where did it hurt ? Where was this gnawing, un- 
remitting pain that racked him mind and body and 
had brought him down limp, as if his bones had been 
turned into ribands ? 

He went in and immediately found himself in a 
crowd mostly of women richly dressed. Their flashy 
elegance hurt him. They hurt him with their im- 
personal looks of feminine articles scarcely varying 
in pattern, but perfectly finished like the latest thing 
exhibited in a show. And they laughed, they were 
gay ! The men too looked like festive articles turned 
out with a mechanical precision, pressed on all their 
seams. And from their background of marble, gild- 
ings, and palms, inane tunes floated forth throbbing 
out of swooning viohns. 

Why must these people always be moving in an 
apotheosis of gaudiness, rubbing frantically their 
sensibihties to ehcit the spark of sensation ? 

As he forged his way through the crowd its contact 
chafed his soreness, its exuberance increased his 
misery to a point of rebellion — Les bourgeois en delire ! 
Yes, that was what they were. Here and at Sherry’s 
on Sundays, everywhere that they could show them- 
selves off. . . . 


THE PASSEE-BY 137 

In his room his rebellion collapsed and grief swathed 
him. Grief recoiling back upon him from the mourn- 
ful walls, from every gloomy, inanimate thing which 
had reflected his hopes, his happiness. 

His chest was heavy with sighs. He had never 
loved hke this before. No fulfilment had ever held 
him up to the exaltation which had sustained him 
during these last few days. No parting had ever 
steeped him in the unutterable misery which darkened 
the world for him now. And he hadn’t asked much — 
to hope, to aspire, to make of her an idol. But there 
it was where he had asked too much ! And for a 
moment he was all bitterness with the intense wish of 
her knowing this conviction of his, that anything else 
which he might have thought of her she would have 
justified with more pleasure than to live up to what 
he had had the insanity of thinking of her by thinking 
too well of her. 


XI 


3 Kamensky went out, Mrs. Moore remained sunk 



in her chair with her eyes staring and unseeing. 
Only the instant before she had looked at the clock 
with an instinctive sensation of void, of expectation. 
She had not yet seen Lore that day, but no sooner 
was she alone than her thoughts strayed from him to 
dwell on the conclusion to which Kamensky’s con- 
versation had led. His words began to tell on her as 
if they were permeating her now beyond the surface 
that they had first struck, impressing her with a sense 
of gravity that came disturbingly new to her, and 
sweeping out of her mind the conflict of uncertain 
ideas by which she had feebly attempted to guide 
herself until now. And now the old conditions of her 
fife appeared clearly sordid, and her comphance with 
the most distasteful of them converted into degrada- 


tion. 


The alarm which Fred had caused her by objecting 
to Lore’s visits seemed superficial compared with that 
which she felt now at the verdict of her illumined 
conscience. ... To choose one or the other ! ... It 
was horrible ! How should she, how could she tell 
Fred ? . . . And then, would he give her her freedom ? 
He was not a man apt to relax his grip on his 
“property.” . . . And if he refused? What then ? 


138 


THE PASSEK-BY 139 

... An elopement ... a scandal . . . Lore’s career 
and his ambitions shattered. . . . 

Involuntarily she covered her eyes with her hands. 

No, she must wait for some event, some accident, 
she would never be able to take the initiative, in the 
meanwhile she would brace herself up to it, as she was 
doing now, by looking straight at the inevitable until 
she got famihar with it. 

She was startled by the servant announcing Lore. 
He kissed her hand, pressing his hps on it, breathing 
its sUght perfume ; it was hke a savour of her, a 
savour which had made him forget all the other 
feminine savours previously tasted. In her offered 
hand there was also clearly a further offer, and in her 
dehcately chiselled fingers the sign of an unfaihng 
beauty extended to all her person, of which they were 
only a promise. 

“ Oh, Angela, I’ve been Hving all day long thirsting 
for this.” Then in her eyes he noticed the unexpected 
mood. 

“ What is it ? You don’t feel well ? . . . Worried ? ” 

“ Sit down,” she said, as she herself sank among the 
cushions in a corner of the sofa. “ I need you, I need 
your love ... I need so to be sure of it ! . . 

“ Oh, Angela, what is it ? I do love you ! How can 
you doubt it ! ” 

“ No, dear, I don’t doubt it, but I fike to hear it. 
It does me good to hear it. It’s all I have.” 

“ Has anything happened ? Who’s been here — 
Kamensky ? What has he been talking about ? ” 
he asked, a little uneasy. 

“ Yes, he’s been here. He’s just left, but he helped 
me.” 


140 


THE PASSEE-BY 

“ Did you tell him anything ? ” This time his 
uneasiness was in his voice. 

“ No ! The idea ! We’ve been talking of things in 
general.” 

“ Be careful, dear,” he said, somewhat reheved. 
“ I wouldn’t hke him to suspect. Any suspicion 
would seem a blur on our love.” 

“ He would be the last person to suspect. He is 
too candid a man to suspect anything ...” Here she 
left her sentence in suspense and her eyes sought in 
Lore’s the comprehension of the word that she had 
felt reluctant to utter, as she had stumbled upon it. 

Yes, he is candid, I must say. A nice chap.” 

“ Nice ? He is a dear. And he’s got a great 
strength ; the strength to look straight at truth. . . . 
Oh, Silvian, that is what I need too ! . . .” 

“ How ? . . . What do you mean ? ” 

“ We can’t go on living this way, Silvian,” came 
under her breath. 

He looked at her, dissimulating his surprise, his 
dismay. “ It’s sad, dreadfully sad, Angela. But 
what are we to do ? ” 

“ Be true to ourselves. You said it once.” 

“ Yes. But are we not true to ourselves ? ” 

She shook her head silently, looking down at the 
flounce of the cushion that she was fingering. Her 
dehcate fingers ghttering with jewels and tapering in 
glistening nails made him uncomfortable now. At 
last she spoke as if in spite of herself. “ No, Silvian, 
I am not true to myself. ... I am deceiving. . . .” 

The serenity of her guilelessness left him breathless, 
so great was it. Only now she was finding that out. 
Beside, why “ deceiving ” ? She gave Lore what was 


141 


THE PASSER-BY 

lost upon her husband, to receive what he himself only 
could give her. “ Now, Angela, don’t be so absurdly 
cruel and unjust to yourself. Could you be to any 
one else what you are to me, or could any one else be 
to you what I am even if I wasn’t here, even if you 
should cease to see me, if it should come to your never 
seeing me again ? ” 

At these words he saw her pupils dilate until her 
eyes looked dark with apprehension. 

“ Never see you again ? ” she repeated, while all went 
dark for her with the darkness that he saw in her eyes. 

“ It is impossible, isn’t it ? You didn’t mean that, 
did you ? ” he urged. 

“ Oh, Silvian ! Don’t say such things again. You 
don’t know how they hurt.” 

“ Angela dear, dear Angela ! It was you who 
alarmed me. Don’t let’s torture each other any 
longer. I wish Kamensky wouldn’t come and preach 
to you. I am sure he’s been preaching to you. If it 
wasn’t that he is what he is, he would be an awful 
prig.” 

“ Don’t ! He’s been very good to me. He’s given 
me some courage, some strength which I so lack.” 

“ I knew it ! He’s been preaching. And what has 
he said ? ” 

“ Things in general. I told you.” 

“ Ethical things of course ! ” 

“Yes. . . .” 

“ Defining neatly and rigidly right from wrong.” 

“ Yes . . . not rigidly. He is too kind for that.” 

“ Still, he has made you feel that we were wrong.” 

“ I felt it before.” 

“ Angela dear, now come. You didn’t show it 


142 


THE PASSEE-BY 

before. You’ll make me feel sorry for having intro- 
duced him to you. He is very clever, I know ; I told 
you so myself before I brought him to you ; but he is a 
Russian, a bit crazy hke most of them. They either 
write the Kreuzer Sonata, or throw bombs at each 
other as we would throw confetti at a carnival at Nice. 
ReaUy, we can’t hve by their ideals ! ” 

A smile flitted across her sadness. “ Kamensky is 
not crazy, dear, only he understands what few people 
do.” 

He had to make quite an effort to control his irrita- 
tion and to affect a melancholy air instead : “ Don’t 
I understand you ? ” 

“ You, you ! Oh, Silvian ! my other self, you under- 
stand me as no one ever did. You guessed my lonefl- 
ness when I myself didn’t know it was that that I 
suffered from. I felt it the moment we met. I felt as 
if we had found each other after a long separation. 
Understand me ? Oh, my dearest ! I knew you did 
that very flrst evening. And do you know ? I never 
told you this before. Every time you spoke I was so 
struck by the way you met my thought that I was 
afraid to talk to you again lest you might disappoint 
me. It seemed impossible to me that we should keep 
on meeting each other the way we did. I was afraid 
all the time that it was a beautiful illusion which could 
not go on repeating itself. But it was not an illusion, 
was it ? ” and she smiled, frankly happy. 

“ No, my beautiful darhng, it was our destiny bring- 
ing us together.” He took her hand, held it between 
both of his, and pressed it with the fervour of his 
warmer emotions, flaring up again now that all un- 
easiness had passed. 


THE PASSER-BY 143 

“Yes, our destiny bringing us together,” she re- 
peated, entranced. 

“ Yes, Angela, yes ! ” Then he bent down, resting 
his head on her arm, kissing her wrist, her hand, her 
fingers one after the other. 

At the sight, at the touch of his head on her arm, 
of his lips on her wrist, a great thrill of happiness 
coursed through her, tears came to her eyes, tears of 
joy that shone Hke drops of rain bright with sunshine. 
Her hand that was free strayed to his head and pressed 
it against her side, where he heard the fiutter of her 
heart, while he felt as if his own would grow faint for 
sheer bliss. And she whispered her love, and between 
kiss and kiss he sighed his answers to her whispers. 

“ Silvian, I shall be yours — yours — ^yours ! ” 

“ Angela ! . . . Angela ! . . .” He was so over- 
come that he found no more words. He was but one 
inarticulate longing for her. His hps groped to where 
they felt her heart pulsating strongest, as if to drink 
her love at its throbbing source. With one arm he 
felt her waist yielding until it lay clasped against him, 
then he lifted his face toward hers and she saw his gaze 
swooning and his lips muttering for her lips. 

At the sight, a wave of inebriation caught her, dim- 
ming, blurring all perceptions save that of an irruptive 
bliss, against which something in her resisted, inertly 
intensifying its overwhelming inrush. 

In this suspense she savoured for one instant all 
the foretaste of her surrender, all the happiness of 
years suddenly disclosed through a dazzling radiance, 
and she whispered once more, the supreme prophecy 
this time, looking transfigured as she bent her face 
over his, upUfted. “ Happiness . . . happiness . . . 


144 THE PASSER-BY 

for ever and ever . . . free ! Do you understand ? 
Free ! I am free ! I’ll take my freedom if it 
won’t be given. . . . I’ll come with you wherever you 
want to take me. . . .” 

At her last words her whisper came like thunder to 
his ears, and his lips, half-open in his breathless longing, 
remained fixed in icy rigidity. 

With a sharp jerk he disentangled himself, sitting 
upright away from her and staring at the door. 

Chilled through she too stared. 

“ I thought I heard . . .” he faltered. 

“ No ; there was no noise . . .” she said, her breath 
coming short. “ How pale you are ! ” 

“ Well, fancy if we had been caught this way. . . . 
I thought I had heard . . . fancy a servant coming 
in. . . 

“ Oh, my darling ! . . . My poor darUng ! How 
dreadful ! . . .” 

He got up. “ I feel completely unnerved.” He 
passed his hand over his forehead, conscious of the 
effect of this gesture as seen on the stage. 

She looked up at him almost with guilt in her eyes, 
as if she had been the cause of his distress. 

“ What a ghastly moment ! ” he thought aloud. 
Then after a silence : “ Au re voir, Angela. I must 

go now . . . It’s so late.” His attitude, his features, 
showed clearly his inner collapse, and it was with an 
automatic gesture that he raised her hand to his lips 
and kissed it. 


XII 


“^OME in ! ” and Kamensky in pyjamas and 

vJ slippers watched the waiter who carried his 
breakfast, picking his way among the boxes, the trays 
of which, piled up with clothes, were spread all over 
the room. 

He had spent the greater part of the last two nights 
in finishing his prison report, and now he was packing. 
He was going to leave that afternoon for San Francisco, 
on his way back to St. Petersburg through Siberia. 
He would have plenty to do both on his way and after 
arriving at his destination. 

Steeled by a nervous tension he had stuck to his 
work, silencing the outcry of his weakness. But now, 
as he was packing, this nervous tension began to give 
way. Every act of the process of packing was like 
one more wrench at the uprooting of what was ten- 
derest in him. He folded and laid away, bit by bit, 
every possibility of happiness. That was the way in 
which he looked at his shirts as he put them starched 
and stiff in a tray, at his coats and trousers as he 
folded them and placed them limp over his shirts. 
But he knew that this feeling was nothing but a 
desperate appeal of his weakness. He had thought a 
great deal about it all and had reached the only pos- 
sible conclusion on which he could act. Still, even 


K 


145 


146 


THE PASSEE-BY 

while he acted, he could not cease from dwelling on 
what was irremediable. He followed over and over 
again the same thread that brought him to the same 
fatal end ; to love or to cease loving was beyond the 
power of will. She loved Lore, and there was nothing 
more to say about it. Only he wished that she had 
been franker with him and prevented him from making 
an ass of himself. Because, after all, he must have 
been rather ridiculous as he had perorated on spiritual 
questions, led by her to the point that she was aiming 
at — “ which of the two.” . . . His exaltation as he 
had dilated in platitudes seemed positively imbecile to 
him now, and he could not help thinking that it must 
have appeared at least amusing to her ... of course ! 
And then that look of hers at the clock, the crank by 
which she had stopped the talking machine when she 
had had enough of it, with such an accurate measure 
of time too ; five minutes later Lore would have 
entered, and he guilelessly would have stayed on spoil- 
ing their tete-a-tete. He was not intrinsically an ass 
after all. He was sure of that. In abstract considera- 
tions he was even clear-sighted, of a clear-sightedness 
including that broad allowance for human weakness 
which any tendency to pessimism in him would have 
converted into scepticism. But why then, when he 
applied his attention to actual people, did he always 
miss the flaws and the tricks by which they were 
concealed ? Why did he picture life then like a 
Bouguereau all sHck and smooth and sweet ? With- 
out any accident or any characteristic deviation ? 
Why did he project it before him like a Swiss 
Christmas-card, virtuous to the point of insipid sanc- 
timoniousness ? Why ? 


THE PASSEK-BY 147 

He sat down before the breakfast tray eyeing some 
letters that had been brought up with it. 

Oh, she knew it all — yes, all, except Lore. Lore was 
the unknown quantity to her yet. One through the 
other, probably both through each other, would suffer — 
not as much as he suffered now, but they would suffer. 
And he sighed, for he knew Lore’s consummate ability 
in avoiding trouble. Then she it was who would 
suffer, and this anticipation was the greatest tempta- 
tion put forward by his weakness toward a com- 
promise. 

But lifting the polished covers of his breakfast 
dishes, he discarded the insidious thought. She had 
to fulfil her destiny as he was fulfilling his now. After 
all, could he be so sure that he had never inflicted any 
suffering ? Was he sure that, if summed up to a 
total, the suffering which he had inflicted consciously, 
by negligence or by ignorance, would not tally with 
the amount of suffering under which he was now 
bending and groaning in every fibre of his being ? 

He sighed, then while he swallowed his oatmeal 
absent-mindedly he indulged in a trick of his, examining 
the addresses on his letters in the attempt to guess 
their origin from the handwriting. One of them he 
would have put aside under ordinary conditions ; 
it was a long envelope with the printed address of a 
commercial firm in a corner. He held it in his hand 
and gazed at it. It came from a florist; a bill, no 
doubt, for some lilies-of-the-valley which he had sent 
to her when . . . 

What a happiness his had been then ! It seemed 
impossible that he was the same man. 

He put the envelope aside and looked at the next. 


148 


THE PASSER-BY 


It was square, stiff, and thin. An invitation this must 
be. The handwriting on the envelope was unknown 
to him. He tore it open. It was an invitation to the 
Bateman’s ball. It didn’t mean anything to him now, 
except as one more cruel reminder of the uprooting. 

This last was more mysterious in its outward char- 
acter. Having vainly tried to guess its origin, he 
opened it and read : — 

“ Dear Mr. Kamensky, When will you come to see 
me again ? I find it difficult to say how much your 
last visit meant to me. ...” 

Here, quite disconcerted, he could not proceed 
without ascertaining the origin of the letter. He 
looked at the signature, and he could not beheve his 
eyes when he saw “ Angela Moore.” With the letter 
shaking in his hand he went on : “ The only way in 
which I can convey to you my feelings is by asking 
you to let me look upon you as a friend. I hope 
you won’t think me too selfish for the unexpected 
burden I lay on your unselfishness, because by friend, 
I mean one of those rare persons on whom one can 
impHcitly rest and confide. You see then, that I am 
not at the end of my confidences nor of needing the 
wisdom that comes from the heart. Is it asking too 
much ? I am so afraid it is, that I will just yield to 
the impulse of sending you this note without rereading 
it, which would mean its destruction. Now you’ll 
have to come to see me soon, if you don’t want me to 
worry for having done a foolish thing. Very sincerely 
yours, Angela Moore. 

“ P.S. — You will receive an invitation for the Bate- 
man’s ball. Do accept it for my sake.” 

His emotion was such at his impetuous reading that 


149 


THE PASSEE-BY 

he had not quite understood what she meant. He 
read again every word, the curves of some letters 
translated themselves into the blandness of ethereal 
caresses. What a balm they were to his heart ! What 
an infinite craving there had been in him for anything 
that could come from her ! The bountiful magnifi- 
cence of the world brightened, brightened all around 
him. His resignation of but a moment before seemed 
inconceivable now. He had not been ridiculous then ? 
This, the most wounding of all the torments that he 
had endured, he examined now squarely, with audacity. 
“ The wisdom that comes from the heart.” That was 
what he had given her ! And that was what she 
needed him for. 

He held her letter tightly as though it might escape, 
convinced of receiving through this contact the flow 
of the ethereal essence of herself that he felt at the 
mere sight of the written signs. Convinced that if 
any doubt as to her sincerity could have been left, 
it would have vanished or been proved by this contact 
with what of her flowed to him without her intention. 
Instinctively he closed his eyes to enter more com- 
pletely into this psychic communion. He had to. 
Then slowly he slipped from his chair, unconscious of 
kneeling in his pyjamas before his breakfast tray, 
unconscious of anything, absorbed as he became in a 
sense of latent loneHness that was wafted from her. 
It was fateful all about her. What conveyed it to him 
he could not tell, even after he opened his eyes. There 
was no sign, no image symbolical of such a state. But 
the impression of its being, latent, yet there, remained 
more unquestionably clear than that given of its 
existence by any tangible object. 


150 THE PASSEE-BY 

He proceeded to dress while he thought of it, then 
mechanically his limbs performed every movement by 
which they got duly clothed, as the spell returned in a 
wave, and held him nowhere save in that state of 
fateful loneliness by which only he was one with her 
now. The sadness of years, perceived in an instant, 
culminated the wave that passed, leaving him con- 
scious of pressing the electric button for somebody 
to come and break the spell against which his single 
presence was impotent. When the bell-boy entered, 
only a sore memory of it all was left, and he told him 
to say at the office that he would not leave that day, 
that he had changed his mind. 

Then he thought of answering her letter at once. 
He read it over again. With every word the actual 
reasserted itself. Released from the torturing con- 
traction of days, his heart expanded in a chaunt of 
glorified love. Yes, he would stay, and devote himself 
to her, even if she was to be happy through some one 
else. This immolation of his own happiness for her 
exalted him. He didn’t mind having ground his way 
through tortures since this was the outcome. Lore ? 
. . . Well, Lore would show himself in his true 
colours sooner or later. 

Smiling at the thought of how difficult he was 
going to make it for Lore, with the “ wisdom that 
comes from the heart,” he bent his head on one side, 
and bridling his excitement wrote : 

“Dear Mrs. Moore, — Thank you, thank you a thou- 
sand times for your letter. It overwhelms me. I, 
too, would find it difficult to tell you how much it 
means to me after my depression of these last days, 
spent with the tormenting thought of having bored 


151 


THE PASSER-BY 

you. But now I bless the suffering that has initiated 
me into the complete appreciation of the friendship 
you offer me. I will call this afternoon on the chance 
of finding you in, and, failing to find you, I will call 
again another day, happy in the meanwhile that you 
should wish to see your ever sincere and tout devouiy 
Serge Kamensky.” 

He sent off the letter at once by messenger, and then 
as he read hers again, finding her in every word, he 
noticed that he had not answered her postscript. Of 
course, he would go to the ball ! He would tell her so 
in the afternoon. Even there she wanted him. . . . 
Was she afraid of Lore ? Of herself ? . . . 

What did it matter, now that he knew how she 
relied on him ? Nothing ! Nothing mattered ! And 
he had to leave his room in all the confusion of his 
suspended departure, because he longed to walk out 
in the open, to expand his sudden restlessness. He 
locked the door with a last glance at the chaos of boxes 
and clothes ; then only it occurred to him by how 
little he had missed the chance of his happiness. In 
this, though, he saw no accident, but only the un- 
deviating fine of his destiny. 

Going down Fifth Avenue, he breathed intoxication. 
The air was snapping, the sun sparkled. No wonder 
one was alert in such an atmosphere. What a race 
it created ! He saw it in the supple energy of women 
out for an early walk, or for shopping. He could tell 
the straightness of their limbs by the angle at which 
their feet poised on the ground at every step. They 
walked like the winged victory. 

Toward Madison Square the Flatiron loomed up, 
soared loftier and loftier before him. He had never 


152 


THE PASSEE-BY 

seen it so graceful and majestic. It looked like a 
scout of an invading cohort moving forward with a 
resistless swing. The winged victory again. Yes, 
it had the suggestion of motion about it. It was 
beautiful ! Probably because it had been a direct 
fulfilment of a necessity, hke those admirable struc- 
tures created by insects, which do not aim con- 
sciously at beauty. The straightest answer to a 
necessity, including beauty perforce with the sim- 
phcity that the process impHed ; a symbolical monu- 
ment of the energies that had called it into existence, 
and that throbbed at the heart of this town as they 
had not throbbed at the heart of any town before. 
The peace of horizontal Hnes would never be the sincere 
expression of these energies. They might be adopted 
in buildings here and there, pressed down to flatness 
by a dutiful effort after a borrowed aesthetic taste, 
but, let loose, the local impulse would always shoot 
upward hke the explosions resounding all day long 
on every side, and that gave one the impression of 
hving in a besieged city. 

He stopped abruptly, all his appreciation of beauty 
instantly withered by a thought which had just idly 
wandered into his mind — his beard ! . . . 

He couldn’t wear a beard with a Louis XVI costume ! 

. . . And she had asked him to go for her sake ! What 
could he do ! Fail her ? . . . 

He saw Lore looking his supreme self, white-wigged, 
in lace and silk stockings. . . . 

The glory of the morning vanished. Once more in 
the clutches of jealousy, he struggled against the re- 
turn of the maddening images which had haunted him 
into the humihating renunciation from which he had 


THE PASSEE-BY 153 

but just been saved. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t go 
through it again. 

Yet could he cut his beard ? A beard that he had 
worn ever since it had first grown ? How would he 
look without it, the days that followed the ball ? 
Ridiculous, no doubt. Anybody who looked suddenly 
unhke himself provoked a mirthful surprise. He 
fancied seeing some one else, who was now shaven, 
suddenly adorned with a beard — Lore, for instance — 
and there was an image that would have made him 
smile — at least had he had the heart to smile. Lore 
with a beard would be ridiculous. What would her 
impression be when she saw him, Kamensky, the next 
time, in everyday clothes, his face shortened, all 
cheeks ? His very self-consciousness making of him 
an ambulant joke, debarring him from any senti- 
mental aspiration. . . . 

He tried his best to stem the dark current of his 
ideas. Wasn’t it foolish of him to attach such import- 
ance to a frivolous question of persona] appearance. 
But was it frivolous ? — and at this question intruding 
itself imperiously he hit the pavement sharply with 
his cane. A suddenly twisted nose would be a change 
just as frivolous, yet . . . Still, in a way it was absurd ; 
he must analyse the situation impartially. But un- 
easiness spread again as he reasoned that since he had 
spontaneously elected to wear his beard ever since it 
had begun to grow, and since he had never wavered 
even with the shade of a doubt in this election, it 
meant that his inner seK had shaped his beard, as it 
had every other feature of his face, into a significant 
manifestation of itself. By cutting his beard he would 
alter the expression of his real self, he would disguise 


154 


THE PASSER-BY 

it with a deceitful artifice in which the deceit was 
flagrant. In fact, it would amount to a facetious 
mystification. That would be the impression he 
would make on her — and she would feel hke laughing 
every time she looked at him. 

This conclusion shattered completely his hope to 
lessen the gravity of his situation. His ideas rushed to 
the worst. The recollection of a paragraph in “ Town 
Gossip,” alluding with a jaunty familiarity to his 
beard as to the most sahent point of his “ Muscovite ” 
personality, flashed through his mind. What if it 
should again make some famihar remark about his 
beard having to be cut for the ball ! Suppose the 
question should be put to him, anyhow? And he 
dwelt on his future state of suspense at dinner parties, 
or at any party where the ball might be discussed. 
If that joke reached her he was lost. He would be- 
come ridiculous whether he cut his beard or not. 
What would she think of him who put his beard in the 
balance with her touching appeal ? 

Absorbed in his trouble, he walked back to the 
Waldorf. He might find a distraction in unpacking 
his things. 

He was in the midst of it when some one knocked, 
and Lore entered. 

“ Hallo ! What’s the matter ? ” he exclaimed, 
standing on the threshold. 

Kamensky straightened himseH up in his shirt- 
sleeves. Now that Lore stood before him, his first 
impulse was what it had always been. “ Come in. I’ll 
be through in a minute. I thought of going away for 
a few days, then I changed my mind. Sit down,” 
and he cleared an arm-chair, aware of a soothing 


THE PASSEE-BY 155 

influence derived from the usual appearance of his 
friend. He felt now as if he had indulged in exagger- 
ated assumptions about Lore. Even his last worry 
about going or not going to the ball lost much of its 
gravity. He had been too much alone with his over- 
wrought sensibihty. That had been the trouble. 

“ I’ve come to see what you are up to. I’ve just 
met Mrs. Belerose who told me that you’ve refused 
her lunch as you were leaving, but she was positive 
about your leaving for good. I knew she must be 
wrong. We had a bet about it. You’ll have to come 
to convince her I’ve won.” 

Bending over a tray, with his back turned to Lore, 
Kamensky explained. “ I did ... in fact ... I 
did write her that way, that is to say, in a way rather 
misleading, I remember now. How stupid of me ! ” 
Then he turned round. 

Lore laughed. “ You are odd ! Well, come along 
now. It’s beastly hot in here. Let’s go out for a 
walk.” 

Lore wanted to get “ Peer Gynt ” before lunch. 
He had promised it to Mrs. Belerose. It was about 
midday, and they walked in a swarm of people all the 
way down the avenue. 

But now Kamensky felt a shade of that intimate 
embarrassment which he had anticipated at the 
thought of meeting Lore. His partial rehef lay in the 
total absence of any kind of uneasiness in Lore’s 
manner. Lore with all his cosmopolitan experiences 
retained that British feature of looking and of being 
exempt from duplicity. If the character of a nation 
had ever been misrepresented it was that of England, 
by the phrase so dear to Frenchmen, La per fide Albion, 


156 


THE PASSEE-BY 

He had but to look at Lore. In spite of his imagina- 
tion, developed by foreign culture, the Enghshman 
in him would never be inveigled into the psycho- 
logical curiosity of discovering what other people 
might think of him. What they thought was too 
ahen to him in the sufficiency of what he himself 
thought of himself. And so about his actions, he 
never would turn them roimd to see the side at which 
other people might be looking. His own side was 
quite sufficient, and on that he rested without conceit, 
without doubt, and without the feeling of having 
an3dhing to conceal — and this was soothing to 
Kamensky. 

Ah ! Mes chers amis, ou allez-vous ? ” 

Darrat, the painter, emerging suddenly from the 
crowd confronted them, juvenile in his continuous 
enjoyment of what was gay and beautiful. “ QuW 
fait beau ! Quelle lumiere dans ce pays ! ” And his 
face, that of a domesticated Bedouin, turned away 
toward the crowd with an expression full of velvety 
sympathy. He explained that he shouldn’t have 
been out, he ought to have been painting “ une dame 
charma-a-ante ! Ah ! Quels cheveux ! ” But she 
had telephoned that she was ill with grippe. “ Aprh 
quoi je viens de la voir se haladant en voiture ! Mais les 
belles dames savent toujours ce qu^elles font C'est a cela 
que je dois le plaisir de vous voir,^^ he said, waving his 
hand toward his friends. 

Kamensky liked him, grateful to him for the charm 
of his Latin courtesy and the ease with which he 
expressed it. To him these were the real luxuries so 
difficult to find nowadays. 

They had not walked five minutes when Darrat 


THE PASSEE-BY 157 

stopped suddenly. '' Ah I La voild / La voild ! 
Regardez moi cette chevelure . . . et ce chapeau^ et ces 
plumes rouges, on dirait une flamme au vent. Ah ! 
Quel portrait plein-air ! ” He was looking at a car- 
riage flashing by, the horses’ heads held high by check- 
reins. In the carriage was a pretty woman cloaked 
in Russian sables. A volume of red plumes in her hat 
quivered like a flame blown backward. 

“ Elle est tres jolie I ” said Kamensky, partly to 
please him. 

“ She’s a lady of sorts, I daresay,” commented Lore, 
“ but her coachman and groom wear the kind of hats 
that would go with the attelage of a smart cocotte in 
Paris. A lady had better not try to look hke a cocotte, 
but certainly she ought not to drive in a cocotte’s 
turn-out. There’s a difference, don’t you think so ? ” 

Kamensky could not help smiling as he followed 
with his eyes the cocky, squatty, bell-shaped hats 
cheekily outhned on the background of the traffic in 
which they were soon absorbed. 

“ Est-ce-que Monsieur Lore trouve qu^elle ressemhle 
d une cocotte ? Ha, mais non ! ” protested Darrat 
good-humouredly. 

Then, as they resumed walking. Lore explained. 
He saw that she was quite perfect as a pictorial vision. 
She might even be a lady, but the whole turn-out 
looked rather vulgar. 

“ Ah, vous voild ! G^est bien Anglais ce mot, mil- 
gaare I Mais que signifie Vil au fond ? ” 

Lore seemed to hesitate for a moment, then he 
advanced the statement that only a gentleman and a 
lady, in the true sense of the word, were untainted by 
vulgarity. 


158 


THE PASSEE-BY 

“ Oh, no ! I can’t agree with you,” said Kamensky. 
“ I don’t call a bricklayer vulgar ... a sailor . . .” 

“ Well, I couldn’t enumerate all the exceptions to 
the rule,” interrupted Lore. 

“You would have too many to enumerate if you 
tried to.” 

“ Do you think so ? ” said Lore, rather shaken. 

“ Try.” 

“Well then, what is your definition ? ” 

“ I should say that vulgarity, in the sense that the 
word has nowadays, comes when people renounce 
being what they are, and try to appear what they 
wish they were. Mind you, I say appear. In fact, 
when they proceed outwardly instead of inwardly to 
their improvement — a bricklayer, a contractor, an 
upholsterer are not necessarily vulgar so long as they 
don’t try to appear what they consider above their 
condition.” 

“Fow5 parlez comme Platon ! ” said Darrat, tapping 
him on his shoulder, “ seulement vous ne rasez pas.^^ 

Both Lore and Kamensky laughed. 

“ Mais oui, je n^ai pas honte de le dire^ il me rase un 
peUy Platon et son dialogue a la Shairloke Holmes avec 
le hon homme Watson qui se trompe toujour s.^'^ 

And they strolled on in the sunny crisp day, con- 
tageously affected by Darrat, indulging in the foreign 
ilanerie, belonging no more to the Fifth Avenue crowd 
that swarmed about them bent directly on definite 
errands, but observing it as spectators, and seeing in 
it either objects of good-natured amusement or of 
aesthetic enjoyment. 

Kamensky liked Darrat all the more for his being 
an artist, who, beside painting an agreeable surface. 


THE PASSEE-BY 


159 


got into his canvases the aristocracy of poetry, which, 
of course, was quite lost upon most of his sitters, and he 
thought it a pity that his success should wane after a 
while when he would no more be the latest thing for 
New Yorkers. 

As they reached Craddock and Jay, and were enter- 
ing the shop, Darrat left them. He was going to have 
a sitting in the early afternoon and couldn’t paint well 
if he was rushed. “ Je suis pas encore assez Ameri- 
cain pour cela — Hein ? Une harmonie en vert,^^ he 
said, pointing to the green book-covers matching the 
general tone of the shop- window, tastefully arranged. 

“ Have you got Ibsen’s ‘ Peer Gynt ’ ? asked Lore. 

The clerk disappeared, then reappeared dusting a 
book. “ It’s been here for two years,” he explained. 

“ Let me look at it,” asked Kamensky, taking it 
from Lore. He had read the book long ago, and now 
he remembered the intense enjoyment that he had 
derived from it. “ Haven’t you got another copy ? ” 
he asked the clerk. 

“ Not one. I doubt if you’U find another one in the 
city.” 

Kamensky resented this statement. “ Ibsen doesn’t 
pay, I suppose.” 

“ No, it doesn’t, you bet ! ” 

“ No ? Not even this ? ” holding out “ Peer Gynt.” 
“ Why ? ” 

“ This least of all ! The Norwegians seem to think 
a lot of it. They find humour in it.” Here the clerk 
beamed. “But it is Norwegian humour, I guess. 
It ain’t understood here.” 

“ Why ? ” asked Kamensky again. “ Is Norwegian 
humour too dry, or not dry enough ? . . . However, 


160 


THE PASSEE-BY 


let’s see. . . . Have you got Dante’s ‘ Vita Nuova,’ 
translated by Rossetti, ‘ The New Life ’ ? ” Then, 
as the clerk disappeared again, he said to Lore : “I 
am afraid that Ibsen’s humour is to New Yorkers what 
their humour is to Enghshmen. You know the story, 
when is humour not humour. ...” 

The clerk was returning with a nice-looking volume 
in his hand. “ No, we haven’t Dante’s ‘ New Life,’ 
but I can recommend you a book of poems just re- 
ceived from London. It’s been quite a success over 
there. And we’ve received more advance orders than 
we’ll be able to fill, I’m afraid. I think you’ll find the 
. . . the . . .” he opened it and scanned the index, 
“ the sonnets on the automobile, on fox-hunting, on 
trout-fishing quite to your taste.” 

Kamensky took the book, looking over some pages 
with Lore, both amused. All the same, he said to the 
clerk : “ No, I don’t think I’ll take this. I’d rather 
have Dante.” 

“ We haven’t got it,” repeated the clerk, with a tone 
of finahty suggesting a condescending allowance for 
the variety of people’s tastes. Then he commented 
warningly : “ This book is going to be a good seller.” 

“ I wonder,” said Lore, once out again, “ how 
publishers guess at the book that will please the public 
nowadays.” 

“ By a special flair, I should say. The combined 
smeUs of gasoline and trout must attract them par- 
ticularly. ... Do you know what ? Nowadays it’s 
in Hterature as in everything else, the worst for the 
many, instead of the best for the few.” 

They were the last to arrive at the Beleroses’ 
house, rather late, and Kamensky felt at once on 


161 


THE PASSER-BY 

the alert, as they had dropped in in the midst of 
a discussion about the costumes for the ball. He 
dilated on explanations to Mrs. Belerose as why he 
had not left as he intended, warding off the dreaded 
topic as long as he could in that way, then rather 
brusquely deserted her to greet Mrs. Larkin, who 
was sitting in a corner with another lady. They both 
looked too serious to be talking about the ball. In 
fact, Mrs. Larkin was talking about the next meet- 
ing of the American National History Society. She 
had just succeeded in securing for the Society the 
original milestones of the old road between Philadel- 
phia and Washington. “ Of course,” she said to 
Kamensky, “ to you this doesn’t seem much. Your 
country is so rich in historical monuments.” 

“No, on the contrary ... on the contrary ! ” and 
he took at once a keen interest in the milestones, 
cHnging to them for safety. During lunch he used 
them with Mrs. Belerose at the first symptom of a 
threatening turn in their conversation, but in his stress 
he felt that his talk must sound artificial. Even when 
he talked of what he was convinced of, he missed that 
fine sense of discrimination that he usually possessed. 
On Mrs. Belerose noticing that he and Lore did not eat 
meat, the conversation turned on vegetarianism. He 
had been a vegetarian for a long time, on moral as well 
as on hygienic principles, but he never preached about 
it. Now he said that he abstained from feeding on 
any kind of corpses, and that the Christians were the 
only people, not excepting savages, so far as he knew, 
who ate the symbol of their deity, the lamb. “No 
wonder they proselytized among cannibals.” He said 
these things with the intention of being paradoxical 

L 


162 


THE PASSER-BY 

to avoid seeming priggish, but in spite of his sortie 
being taken cheerfully, he was aware that it had jarred 
on everybody’s taste, and had shocked Mrs. Larkin, 
who was interested in foreign missions. She did not 
touch the lamb on her plate after what he said. 

All this disconcerted him. It made him lose his 
self-esteem with his self-reliance. He felt as de- 
morahzed as if he had been conscious of having had 
too much to drink, and as if he were unable to trust 
himself. He wondered since when Lore had started 
being a vegetarian, but he dared not ask him. He only 
felt a relief when he was exempted from the necessity 
of carrying on a conversation, ready to lend all his 
attention to whoever should draw the general interest. 

The lady who had been talking to Mrs. Larkin 
when he had come in asked Mr. Belerose if he was 
going to cut his beard for the ball. 

“ Of course ! ” exclaimed Mr. Belerose joyously, 
who, since the time that he had graduated as an archi- 
tect at the Beaux- Arts, had retained a pointed beard 
and bristly hair. 

All tense in the supreme balance of that instant, 
Kamensky asked : “ How did the Batemans make 
their fortune ? ” 

And as the answer deviated the general attention 
from the dreaded subject, he relaxed, breathing freely 
again. 

“ Bateman inherited a good business in the grocery 
line. Then he’s been lucky in a peanut corner, for all 
I know. He’s worth thirty millions now.” 

“Is it true,” asked the same lady, “ that Fred 
Moore is going down ? I heard last night that his 
affairs are in a desperate state.” 


163 


THE PASSEE-BY 

Kamensky felt at once a certain uneasiness in the 
haste with which Belerose answered, changing the 
subject at the same time : “ Just a story ! . . . By 
the way, have you seen ‘ Business is Business ’ at the 
Lyric ? ” 

While the conversation flowed on once more, 
Kamensky was aware of one more sombre germ of 
worry sprouting in his consciousness. Why should 
the bad news of Mr. Moore’s affairs have started that 
ripple of dissonance ? On account of Lore’s presence ? 
Then was he generally considered as being too intimate 
with the Moores to have their affairs discussed before 
him ? The interest that he himself took in Mrs. 
Moore was a secret known to himself alone, but Lore’s 
attentions. . . . Then Lore was considered as being 
too intimate with her ? The terrible thought that 
he himself had dismissed this very morning, was 
entertained by everybody. . . . 

The uncoiling of lurid images began again in the 
darkness that fell on him, that spread about him. 

But he would not suffer that way a second time ! 
He forced himself to look at Lore, who sat facing him, 
who was absolutely unconcerned by the news of what 
might mean ruin to her. The end of the lunch was 
gay with an animated discussion, in which chiefly the 
Beleroses vied in rapid and fehcitous remarks, one 
capping the other, and in which Lore participated. 
Was he really indifferent, or was he pretending ? 

They went out as they had come, together. “ I’ve 
got nothing to do,” said Lore. “ I’ll walk with you.” 

He was still in a mood of flanerie, of abstracting him- 
self from the definite exactions of American surround- 
ings. He needed to be fortified in that Latin spirit of 


164 


THE PASSEE-BY 

taking things easily in matters of love. He needed 
it for the further cultivation of his own love affair, 
which was developing into too exact and grave a form, 
and must be remodelled in a cheerfuUer key. Wliile 
in Washington, where he had hastened after that 
terrible afternoon, when she had simply proposed that 
they should run away, he had written to her hinting 
at some obscure spiritual despondency, ehciting from 
her an answer full of sympathetic devotion. This had 
been a breathing spell which had allowed him to 
collect himself without enabhng him to form a definite 
plan. The spiritual tack was all right in a case of 
emergency, but it led nowhere. The despondency, 
too, had not been entirely simulated ; he felt sorry for 
her, that was the worst of being too kind-hearted. For- 
tunately his was too cheerful a nature to brood on 
anything for any length of time, and a decided relief 
had come to him already, before lunch, by merely 
strolling down the Avenue with Kamensky and Darrat. 
That stroll had Hfted him out of his apprehensive out- 
look, by a sense of being transposed into the security of 
a wider movement of the world’s fife than that of New 
York. He had known before now the contagious 
effect of one’s mood, if only the mood were sufficiently 
felt and not affected. Owing to that unselfish trait 
of his of being able to put himself in other people’s 
places, he could quite understand her point of view ; 
at times, he really wished he had been selfish. But 
why should a love-affair be taken tragically ? Why 
should it break up a home ? Why should it unchain 
scandal with its torrent of scurrilous abuse ? No one 
would gain anything by it, and besides, how often he 
had watched the shattering of all the charms of a 


165 


THE PASSER-BY 

love-affair by its becoming fixed in a definite form, 
which was the grave of the unexpected, of all the 
surprises by which love Hved. Heavens ! Love only 
thrived under the veil of secrecy, among dangers and 
difficulties. Poets knew what they were about when 
they had never bestowed any feehng worthy of interest 
on a married couple. Romeo and JuHet could not be 
allowed to live a minute after they were married ; 
it would have spoiled everything. And didn’t even 
the unsubtle and well-meaning pubhc understand this, 
when it objected to a married couple acting romantic 
parts together ? That she shouldn’t see this spon- 
taneously was only too natural. What science of 
life could she have derived from her experience of a 
single adventure instantly settled by marriage? It 
was only too natural. . . . But that he, knowing life 
as he did, should let them both shp into a clumsy 
blunder was impossible, simply impossible ! Difficult ? 
Yes, it would be difficult. But what of that, so long 
as he had the conviction of being right ? Conviction 
was bound to carry persuasion, and then, what a 
reward ! 

For one thing to-day, he wished as if by chance to 
wind up his stroll at her house with Kamensky, whom 
it would appear he had been unable to shake off. 
Just now such a tempering intrusion would be salutary, 
as he feared a httle the first outburst of her welcome. 

At the Waldorf Lore said : “ I’ll come up with you,” 
and Kamensky was glad of it. Face to face with the 
chief cause of his anxieties he felt reassured by Lore’s 
very presence, for he knew that the moment he had 
gone, he would begin to fancy all sorts of things again. 
When Lore happened to mention his absence from 


166 


THE PASSEE-BY 

town for the last two days, coinciding with the period 
when he himself had been tortured by the most 
gratuitous assumptions, he felt almost hke embracing 
his friend ; at any rate, he felt as if he could not make 
up sufficiently with cordial effusiveness for the heinous 
suspicions that he had nursed against him. 

Once in Kamensky’s room. Lore said casually : 

“ Have you got anything particular to do ? Let’s go 
and see Mrs. Moore.” 

“ Yes . . . yes. . . . Just one letter,” stammered 
Kamensky, overwhelmed, turning to the table and 
looking for his pen to hide his emotion. 

“ By the way, have you received your invitation to 
the Batemans’ ball ? I found mine at home this 
morning. You’re going, are you not ? What about 
your costume ? ” 

“ Yes . . . yes. . . . Wait a second until I finish 
this letter and then I’ll be with you. Sit down.” 
He had felt cold at the anticipation of the next ques- 
tion that Lore might have asked, and from that to the 
joke that would be told directly to her there was but a 
hair’s breadth. “ Take a book,” he added, to divert 
as rapidly as possible Lore’s ideas. 

“Pamri./” 

It was Lore getting up as he had just sat down. 

“ Look here ! ” and he held out “ Peer Gynt,” which 
he had forgotten in his overcoat pocket until he had 
sat on it. Then, muttering, he settled down again, and 
presently began to look into the book, turning some 
pages. 

Kamensky tried to think to whom he might write, 
while he pretended to scribble. . . . Surely if he went 
with Lore to see her they would begin to talk about 


THE PASSEE-BY 


167 


the ball. It was an immense relief to know that 
Lore wished him to go, the temptation of going also 
was great — but the danger ! If Lore should once 
suspect his dread of that topic he would soon discover 
why, then make the best of the joke. No ; it was out 
of the question, he couldn’t go with Lore to see her. 
It would be hard enough to manage things safely when 
he went by himself — very hard. He must think over 
it, he must go prepared to create his own atmosphere, 
an atmosphere alien to worldly things. 

“ By Jove, Serge ! There are ripping things in here. 
That description of the ride on the Buck — what must 
it be hke in the original ! ” 

“ Ah, yes ! But there is much more than that. 
The woman’s love, the love of Solveig, do you re- 
member ? How poetic, how touching ? ” He took 
the book and turned some pages. “ One must read it 
all. But do you remember how she goes to Peer Gynt 
only when he has become an outlaw, disgraced and 
hunted ? Ah ! Here it is. Listen to what she says : 

The worst was leaving my little sister. 

But parting from father was worse, still worse ; 

And worse to leave her at whose breast I was horn ; 

Oh, no, God forgive me ! the worst I must call 
The sorrow of leaving them all — aye, all ! 

and then again : 

I ran upon snow-shoes : I asked my way on ; 

They said, Whither go you ? 1 answered, I go home.” 

Oh ! But where is it that she says ...” He turned 
still more pages. “ Here comes the Troll’s daughter.” 

“Yes, yes ! I remember the Troll’s daughter,” 
said Lore. 

“ Yes, but do you remember what the TroU’s 


168 


THE PASSEE-BY 

daughter says at the end, when he tries vainly to shake 
her off, appalled by being unable to free himself from 
her, his sin of lust ? He says ‘ And all this ? ’ and she : 
‘ For nothing but thoughts and desires, it is hard on 
you. Peer ! ’ Do you see ? ‘ For nothing but thoughts 
and desires.’ ” 

“Yes, yes, I see,” hastened Lore, who was afraid 
that Kamensky would begin to tell him about the 
power of thought. He would rather hear something 
else that he might use in expounding the book to Mrs. 
Belerose. “ Go on — what comes next ? ” 

“ What comes next is wonderful . . . well, all of it 
is. He sees himself soiled, it would be a sacrilege to go 
back to Solweig now. She calls : ‘ Are you coming ? ’ 
and he answers : ‘ It is dark and I’ve got something 
hard to fetch.’ And Solweig : ‘ Wait, the burden we’ll 
share.’ And he : ‘Be patient, my girl ; be my way 
long or short — ^you must wait.’ And Solweig : ‘Yes, 
I’U wait.’ ” 

“ Now I remember,” said Lore, “ ‘ Be my way long 
or short — ^you must wait.’ That’s hke hfe, isn’t it ? ” 

“ Yes, but what is unHke it, is that she does wait 
until he comes back, at the end of his Hfe, a mediocre 
sinner that nothing can save from the melting ladle 
of the button-moulder. What a bhstering humour in 
that button-moulder ! And then it is that she says 
those wonderful words.” 

“Yes, yes. Oh ! what are they ? ” said Lore, 
reminiscently looking at the ceihng. 

Kamensky found the page and read : 

Then tell me what thou knowest. 

Where was I, as myself, as the whole man, the true man ? 

Do you remember her answer now ? ” 


169 


THE PASSER-BY 

“ I know it — I know it ! But I can’t remember it.” 

“ ‘ In my faith — in my hope — in my love,’ ” and 
Kamensky took a deep breath. “ Eh ? These words 
must find an echo in most women’s hearts. It is so 
natural and yet so wonderful, the way, I mean, in which 
a master mind will reveal them to themselves ! ” 

“ Wonderful ! And so he is saved by her, of course,” 
said Lore, getting up. 

“ Yes,” confirmed Kamensky, handing him the 
book. “ He is saved by what’s best in him, which 
is indestructible.” 

“ Her love ? ” 

“ No ! She stands as a symbol of what is best in 
him. Don’t you see it ? ” 

For a perceptible instant Lore stared at him vacantly, 
then he recovered. “ Yes, yes, that’s exactly what 
I meant ! Well, so long ! I must be going.” He 
shook hands, then went out, leaving Kamensky greatly 
surprised and reheved. Lore had forgotten all about 
their going to see Mrs. Moore together ! 

But the next moment he smiled — of course ! He 
could see Lore going straight with “ Peer Gynt ” to 
Mrs. Belerose to explain to her the mystic meaning 
which he saw in it. 

Then, from the back of his head, came the suggestion 
that he had very httle reason for smifing, and follow- 
ing this suggestion, what had caused it. “ Town 
Gossip.” Yes, he would like to look at that para- 
graph. He found it in his travelling bag, where he 
kept it as a curiosity, and read : “ Mr. Serge Kamensky 
is the last thing in the way of foreign importation. 
He has come to this country wearing a beard which 
seems to be the most salient part of his personahty, 


170 


THE PASSEE-BY 

but he will be sorely disappointed if he thinks that his 
Muscovite appendage will find in this country the 
favour which tradition still bestows upon it in the 
land of the Czar. He is not a prince, he is not even 
a baron, and although neither of these titles, when of 
Caucasic origin, can be expected to entice the most 
snobbish of our heiresses nowadays, they still might 
have given him the entree to the most hospitable of 
our houses when his beard will hardly be sufficient to 
warrant such a success, even if considered as dignifying 
his mission, which we understand to be that of a prison 
inspector. It is an interesting point to note that such 
a title among the fiberal party of his own country is 
very easily confused with that of an official spy.” 

Absurd as this was, it offended him because it was 
written in a style that was vulgar, trying to be clever, 
and because of its mendacious malevolence. It would 
be terrible if any one on that paper should come to 
suspect the possibifity of his perplexity. What had 
he done to inspire such hostifity ? Nothing ! No 
more probably than any of the other people who in 
the same sheet were even more seriously slandered 
than himself. 

He tried to read what was said about other people, 
but he had to stop in disgust. Hotels were called 
“ hostelries,” eldest sons, “ scions,” and a charming 
young woman whom he happened to know was called 
a “ matron,” only beaucse she was married. “ Dovble 
entendre ” was used instead of “ double entente^'' with 
the jaunty assurance of a parvenu trying to be a 
gentleman. How could anybody, with a normal, 
nervous system, read such things ? Well, this cer- 
tainly was a very curious American feature ! Nothing 


THE PASSEE-BY 171 

of the kind could have Hved for twenty-four hours in 
Europe. He could well understand that always and 
ever3rwhere a dirty man could be found to do dirty 
work, but what he could not understand was that such 
dirty work should be so generally required by an 
apparently educated community. It was curious ! 
Because, after all, it seemed to him that the demand 
and the supply of any article implied a very definite 
degree of association between the producer and the 
consumer, so definite in fact, as to extend a share of 
the responsibility for the existence of the article from 
the producer to the consumer. Strange, this irrepres- 
sible intrusion into privacy ! 

He folded the paper carefully, and put it back in his 
travelHng bag, but the question provoked by reading 
it puzzled him still. Chivalry and “ clean-mindedness” 
impressed him as being qualities rather boasted of by 
Americans. He had often heard of the chivalry of 
American men, before coming to their country, almost 
as much as of their “ dry humour.” Once here, 
clean-mindedness, so often mentioned, had almost 
given him a sense of secret guilt for his broad, foreign 
way of looking at fife, and then to his surprise he had 
found the chivalry of American men consistent with 
their supporting the kind of paper in which, every 
week, they could see their daughters, sisters, wives, 
and mothers pelted with filth. In the west, to his 
amazement, he had seen “ Town Gossip ” in many a 
club’s reading-room. A singular chivalry, indeed ! 
And here, how many women — ^not the nicest, of course 
— but still, how many women, ladies as they seemed, 
read it on the sly, secretly indulging in a taste identical 
with that of common servants. What a singular clean- 


172 THE PASSEE-BY 

mindedness ! And then wasn’t it openly displayed on 
every newstand ? In many a reputable bookshop ? 
What a puzzHng country ! True, the free laws of this 
great country did not afford the elementary protection 
against such kind of slander as was found anywhere 
else, but shouldn’t a sense of dignity, equally elemen- 
tary, help their clean minds in resisting their question- 
able inquisitiveness ? That alone would have been 
sufficient, the paper would have died, but to resist 
every week, something new and something sensational, 
to resist what could stir their nerves instead of their 
minds, seemed evidently more than could be generally 
expected from their highest moral quahties. 

At this point he remembered some letters sent to 
the “ Herald ” by people protesting against an emo- 
tional novelty, which they had been unable to resist. 
This novelty consisted in their being strapped inside 
a barrel, and then set rolHng up and down a track bent 
in a half-circle. The letters were logical in setting 
forth the inconvenience of such an amusement. 
They described the hysterical state in which a lady — 
“ of sorts,” no doubt, according to Lore — had emerged 
from the barrel, the danger of apoplexy run by an 
elderly gentleman. One of the writers himself had 
been hit in the eye by his own fountain-pen shaken 
out of his pocket while he rolled inside the barrel. 
His indignation was legitimate, but what about the 
national sense of humour, when the barrel kept on 
rolling, full of grown-up people, who paid to get inside 
of it until the police, moved by their protestations, 
interfered ? 

He had to smile again, then he screwed his eye- 
brows in the effort to retrace the sequence of his 


THE PASSER-BY 173 

thoughts to their starting-point. He felt an agreeable 
vagueness at the back of it all, of an auspicious kind. 
Suddenly it came forth — Solweig ! But why had it 
seemed auspicious ? And suddenly as the name had 
come forth, an inspiration came too. 

Solweig, the woman, was the medium that he 
needed to create his atmosphere in going to see Mrs. 
Moore. Solweig would lift their conversation above 
the Bateman’s ball. With Solweig, he was sure to be 
able to elude any dangerous approach to the fatal 
condition inherent to his going to the ball. He must 
get “ Peer Gynt ” immediately. Surely he would find 
it at Barry, Fletcher, and Schurtz. 

As he went, he anticipated, more and more clearly, 
the effect that he might ehcit with Solweig. How 
Solweig would appeal to her ! It would lead them 
from metaphysical and spiritual talk to what was 
nearer his heart. Ah ! He was not going to miss it 
this time ! He must let her know what was in his 
heart, beyond the wisdom that she asked him for. 
He owed this to her as well as to himself. And Solweig 
was in her ! She would leave everything unreal for 
the only real thing. But he must let her know where 
the real thing was. He must save her ! If he could 
only open her eyes. . . . 

At Barry, Fletcher, and Schurtz, he lingered looking 
at the handsome editions in the sumptuous window, 
some closed, their contents mysteriously sealed under 
the gorgeous bindings. Others, on the contrary, 
complacently open, without any modesty, so sure were 
they that the beauty thus disclosed was not a thing 
to be ashamed of. Some were grave and dull in their 
openness ; they displayed, without zest, some valuable 


174 


THE PASSER-BY 

engraving ; they seemed to say : “I am an antique 
first edition — I have nothing more to say about myself. 
I am not to be read ; cheap editions are good enough 
for that. I expect the veneration of careful fingers in 
a drawing-room, fined with silk damask, and a soporific 
repose on a Louis XVI table, not far from a bridge 
table.” Some, though, were more frivolous ; they 
seemed to wink at one, saying : “ Just look at me.” 
A charming edition of “ Les Contes De La Fontaine ” 
attracted thus Kamensky’s attention. The engraving 
exposed was daintily suggestive, but the book seemed 
to whisper : “ This is nothing compared with the rest 
of me. Come in, and to you I will unveil . . . well, 
I won’t tell you what. You’ll have to come in, if you 
want to know.” 

Would he find “ Peer Gynt ” there ? He still 
delayed entering, and sauntered round the corner to 
the other window on the side-street, because books 
just as books had a particular fascination for him. 
But there he was dazzled unexpectedly by an explosion 
of syllables. The last book in vogue ran riot, swamped 
the whole place, drove everything else in chinks and 
corners, and clarioned forth its existence for all it was 
worth, while it lasted: “Tom,” “Tom,” “Tom,” 
“ Tom,” “ Tom,” “ Tom,” “ Tom,” alternately open 
and shut the volumes followed each other in serried 
ranks, one showing the picture of an American matinee 
hero, in a slouch hat, the next clapping the cover over 
the picture, and blazing away its name — “ Tom ! ” 

Slightly bewildered Kamensky retreated from the 
window and entered the shop. 

A nice-looking clerk came up to him at once. “ ‘ Peer 
Gynt’? I am afraid we haven’t got it.” But he 


THE PASSEE-BY 175 

proceeded to assure himself whether “ Free Gynt ” 
was there or not. After having vanished in dark 
places, however, he confirmed his first statement, 
supplementing it with an extenuating circumstance : 
“ The book must be out of print.” 

And out went Kamensky, hitting his cane on the 
pavement. His prospect did not look brilHant, and he 
meditated on the importance of small things. “ ‘ Tom,’ 
‘ Tom,’ ‘ Tom,’ ‘ Tom,’ ” he commented aloud, “ and 
no ‘ Peer Gynt.’ . . Of course, “ Peer Gynt ” 
wasn’t new enough, even for those who had never read 
it ! Would he find it at Milner’s ? Or at Jacob 
Crane’s ? 

The very difficulty in his way made the conquest of 
“ Peer Gynt ” the more precious. “ In my faith — 
in my hope — in my love ! ” Yes, that would appeal 
to her. It was hke her. 

He went in at Jacob Crane’s — he was out again in an 
instant, as if he had been scalded. Then his thought 
clustered tightly round his desire to find the book, 
endeavouring to preserve his desire in a state of hope. 
The endeavour became harder and harder. From 
Milner’s he went somewhere else, and again to another 
place, but he got the book at last. 

Rarely had he handled a volume with such reverent 
appreciation. He opened it, turning the pages care- 
fully as if to assure himself of its integrity, almost 
surprised when he saw that the fines which meant so 
much to him were not missing. He loved the very 
texture of the paper, he smelled it, he liked the small 
print. It wasn’t a very good type, to be sure, but 
then how friendly. Destiny . . . Destiny ... he 
thought, with a meaning of grateful invocation. He 


176 THE PASSEE-BY 

sighed amply, and then looked at his watch. Twenty- 
nine — ^no, twenty-four minutes to seven ! . . . Cab, 
or car ? The Madison Avenue car might be faster, 
but then, at this hour it might be full to overflowing. 
The cab would be stopped at Twenty-third, Thirty- 
fourth, and Forty-second Streets — for ever at Forty- 
second Street ! If he got there after seven, it would be 
too late, for it would take some time to lead up to the 
subject. 

He hastened across to Fourth Avenue, looking out 
for a cab all the while. If he saw a cab, he would 
take it, then destiny would have it that he should take 
a cab. But he saw none, and the flrst car went by 
him hke a yeUow streak. Then he took up his position 
between the rails, and brought the next one to a stand- 
still, with a soothing feeling at the angry abuse of the 
driver. He got on the step and no further, such was 
the crowd swarming inside, and hanging outside of 
the car. Outside he clung, then, feeling hke a parrot, 
amused at the idea of this similarity, sharing the good- 
natured stoicism of the crowd. Fine people ! Ah ! 
It was no use ! Here was a race of people who gave 
vent to no futile impatience, all their energies always 
coUected and controlled toward a single purpose. No 
wonder they succeeded ! 

After a block the car stopped. An old lady squeezed 
herself slowly out of the car on to the platform. To 
make room he stepped off, ready to get in ahead of 
several people kept in abeyance in the street by the 
conductor’s “ Let ’em off. Let ’em off ! ” Kamensky 
chafed at the tardy egress of the old lady. She seemed 
to be purposely stupid about it, stepping on the same 
spot, as it were. Really ! Such slow old ladies had 


THE PASSER-BY 


177 

no business to go about in cars ! “ Step lively ! 

Step lively ! ” urged the conductor, holding the bell- 
strap ready to ring. “ Get off ! D’y expect to keep 
us here all night ? ” 

“ Please get off my dress,” she pleaded. 

And with a grumble the conductor released her by 
hfting his foot from her skirt. Then she became 
suddenly industriously speedy, hopped, and was off. 
Behind her came a plumber carrying a vast coil of 
lead pipe, with which he stohdly scraped everybody 
as he went. At last the car moved on again, but only 
for two blocks. 

It seemed to Kamensky that the slowest people on 
earth had chosen that car to “ ride ” in. The rubbing 
and jostling of people getting in and out set his nerves 
on edge. Their calm irritated him. No wonder they 
took to rolling inside of barrels as an amusement ; 
the wonder was that they ever got out of them, unless 
they had been hned with spikes. No temperament, 
that was the matter with them. No, no temperament ! 

Before reaching the tunnel at Thirty-fourth Street, 
the car slowed down, and proceeded by jerks, shaking 
everybody. But Kamensky could see that he was 
the only one minding it. People in seats, people hang- 
ing on to straps, swayed and shook without taking 
their eyes off the evening editions that they were 
reading. He felt as if with one more jerk he would 
have exploded. But he would not give in. He had 
too much at stake to leave the car, in giving way to his 
temper. Some brute driving a wagon must be ahead 
of the car. Presently, however, the tunnel would be 
reached, and then it would be a flight to Forty- 
second Street. 


M 


178 


THE PASSER-BY 

Just out of the tunnel, at Forty-second Street, the 
car stopped. After a while Kamensky craned his 
neck, looked out ahead — a long perspective of cars 
stood motionless. He watched eagerly for the furthest 
one ahead to move, but it did not, while everybody 
kept on reading the papers more avidly now that they 
were not shaken. 

“ What is it ? How long a time do you think we 
shall be blocked ? ” he asked the conductor, who had 
been talking with the conductor of the car ahead. 

“ What d’ye take me for — a prophet ? ” 

It was the last straw. Kamensky left the car. 
All was up for that day. Seven-twenty, too late ! 
And he went back to the Waldorf, all his pleasure at 
finding the book flattened to depression. He felt as 
if in those thirty minutes, spent in getting his nerves 
exasperated and in controUing them, he had used up 
an amount of vital energy that would have been 
sufficient for a normal day’s work. 


XIII 


T he following day he was there a httle after five, 
having passed and repassed several times before 
her house, drawn and held back by the climax that 
would decide his fate. 

“ How have you been ? ” she asked, when he came 
into the room, his heart faltering with joyful anticipa- 
tion at finding her alone. 

“ Very well . . . thank you — ^that is to say, so-so. 
But now, now I feel perfectly.” There she was, and 
the actual, by exceUing the vision that had haunted 
him, paralysed him, for the moment. 

“ What could have made you think that you had 
bored me ? What an idea ! You have been a great 
help to me.” She ended with a note of gravity in her 
voice. 

He felt foohsh now for having written that to her. 
“ Whims . . . moods . . . blues . . . blues, I sup- 
pose. I . . . I . . .” Then he stopped. 

The pause grew sHghtly embarrassing ; she came to 
his assistance. 

“ What have you got there, a book ? How nice of 
you.” 

As he handed it to her, her slight perfume reached 
him. As he bent down to her it seemed to ascend to 
him from her uplifted face, from her lips, from her 
179 


180 


THE PASSEE-BY 


hair, as from the heart of a flower. She lowered her 
eyes on the book that she held, and with the terror 
of yielding to an irresistible aberration he remained 
for an instant in a dazed suspense, possessed by the 
foretaste of the ecstasy in which he felt Hke dissolving 
himself by bending only a Uttle further and breathing, 
breathing the rare intoxication from that wonderful 
cloud of hair ... by feeling its touch on his face. 
He receded, took a chair, his head reeled, hammered 
at the temples by burning strokes. 

“ Why ! What’s this ? Did you — but how lovely ! 
Did you do it ? ” As she had opened the book, a 
sketch that he had done of her slipped out. 

“ Oh ! It’s nothing. So badly drawn. But I 
couldn’t help it. I had to do it. I did it last night.” 
He felt his face reddening in his glad confusion. 

“ But it is perfectly beautiful. It is wonderful ! 
Is it for me ? ” 

“ Of course ! Of course, if you care to have it. I 
brought it for you in case it pleased you. I only wish 
I could have drawn, expressed, better the way I see 
you.” 

“ Oh ! But it is dreadfully flattered. You mustn’t 
spoil me. You’ll make me vain. ‘ Peer Gjmt ! ’ ” 
she exclaimed, looking at the book, then at him. 

“ Yes. I thought you would hke it. There are 
things in it that are of the kind you would Hke, I am 
sure.” 

“ But this is extraordinary ! ” 

He saw a decided surprise in her face. “ Do you 
know it already ? Have you read it ? ” he asked, 
clutched by a vague anxiety. 

“ I had never heard of it until yesterday when Mr. 


181 


THE PASSEE-BY 

Lore brought it to me. He read some scenes out of it. 
Such marvellous things ! As you’ve just said, the 
kind of things that I do like, that appeal to me tre- 
mendously. Well, it’s simply been something — some- 
thing hke a revelation. I am still aU excited by it. 
That Hne, you know, at the end : ‘ In my faith, in my 
hope, in my love,’ don’t you think that it must find 
an echo in every heart ? Don’t you think that there 
are thoughts and feehngs that we have had without 
being aware of them until a master mind reveals us to 
ourselves ? But what is extraordinary is this coinci- 
dence. Do you know that you are very much alike, 
you two ? And so tremendously clever ! ” 

The ghost of a smile flickered on his face, in response 
to hers, as he said : “I dare say Lore is clever,” but 
he said so with too evident a lack of .conviction, while 
he had the sensation of such inner collapse that his 
breath seemed to fail him. 

“ Yes — he is clever, very clever indeed,” she em- 
phasized, with a shade of defiance. And he knew what 
moved her, by the way that the look in her eyes stabbed 
him. She was disappointed in him for the insidious 
tone of his admission. 

“ Don’t you agree with me ? ” she insisted. 

“ Of course,” he said coldly, and he gulped gall. 

“ Do you know,” she went on, with a firmness which 
lashed him as if it had been the hardest severity, 
“ that Mr. Lore is a very good friend of yours ? I 
mean to say, the sort of friend one can rely upon ? 
There is no one of whom he speaks as he does of you. 
I mean, he admires you tremendously.” 

Sinking in annihilation, the nearest thing that he 
could think to save himself was to dispel her impression 


182 


THE PASSEE-BY 

of his insidious disloyalty. But he wished also that 
she should know that if there had been any insidious- 
ness, even of an unintentional kind, it had not been on 
his part. “ I know what a friend Lore is ... I know. 
I’ve known him for a long time. We’ve been friends 
for a long time. But all the same, he robbed me — 
unintentionally. Oh ! Certainly unintentionally, of 
a pleasure to which I was looking forward. We got 
‘ Peer Gynt ’ together yesterday. I read bits to him, 
and I thought of you, how you would have hked it. . . .” 

He spoke in hopelessness, aware that he was flounder- 
ing in meaningless explanations, that the vital part of 
what he was saying was too confused to enlighten her 
on Lore’s and his position respectively. He reahzed 
this completely, when she broke in : 

“ Oh, yes ! Mr. Lore told me ! How Hke you two 
to spend your time in reading ‘ Peer Gynt,’ and in 
getting excited over it. Fancy two American men 
reading ‘ Peer Gynt ’ to each other, in a club ! ” 

He attempted a smile, but, feehng that he must 
look sickly, he could not keep it up. He began to 
feel as if his wits had deserted him, and as if he were 
swaying in his chair, oddly, as in a dream. At last, 
in alarm, lest she should think him queer and be 
afraid of him, he managed to stammer : “ Men don’t 
. . . don’t read ‘ Gynts ’ in clubs here ? ” 

She laughed. “ Oh ! That’s dehghtful ! I didn’t 
know you could be sarcastic ! . . . Like the button- 
moulder, with his blistering humour, as Mr. Lore 
calls it.” 

At this he recovered himseK. “ I said that ! ” he 
ventmed, revolted and aware of the puerihty of his 
attempt at self-vindication. 


183 


THE PASSEE-BY 

“ Of course, if Lore said it ! I really think you two 
ought to keep a record of your experiences, and send 
them to the Psychical Research Society. It will 
never have such a clear case of telepathy ! ” 

Crushed and bewildered, he vainly tortured his 
mind to squeeze out of it anything by which he could 
congruously deviate the conversation into another 
channel. “ Peer G3nit ” had turned into a nightmare. 
But he could find nothing. He simply sat instinc- 
tively tr3dng to smile, and then regretting it. The 
conversation dragged. He saw that she felt it too. 

“ By the way,” she asked, “ did you receive the 
invitation to the Batemans’ ball ? ” 

“Yes. Oh ! thank you so much ! ” A horrible 
apprehension galvanized him into hvefiness again. 

“ You will go ? You know I expect you to.” 

“ Yes — certainly — ^yes ! ” and he arose. 

“ Are you leaving already ? ” 

“ Yes, I am sorry I cannot stay any longer. I’ve 
got an engagement. I just came in to bring you this 
book. I thought ... I hoped to be the first.” All 
this that he was saying sounded hke nothing. It was 
lifeless, idiotic to distraction, just as he felt. He made 
a fresh, desperate effort at cheerful liveHness to leave 
a better impression of himself. “ But I came too late ; 
it is the early bird . . .” He paused, stunned. 

“ Thank you ! ” she said. “ And I am the worm ! 
You are not very flattering to-day.” She was laugh- 
ing, amused. 

He heard himself laugh, too. Then he found himself 
in the hall, being helped into his overcoat by the ser- 
vant, and when the front door closed behind him he 
walked away with a distinct sensation of disgrace, as if 


184 THE PASSEE-BY 

he had been put out of the house. Everything else 
was chaos. 

How cold the wind was ! He raised the collar of his 
overcoat. He felt as if he were dressed in wet linen. 
A long shiver rippled through him, setting his teeth 
chattering. But how cold ! Within and without. 
His bones seemed shafts of ice within his flesh. 


XIV 


“ "Vr OU look like an apostle,” said Lore, as he was 
sitting by Kamensky’s bed. 

“ That’s on account of my beard.” 

Then Lore went on reading aloud to his friend. 

The fever of influenza had left Kamensky toward the 
morning of the fifth day. While it lasted he had been 
haunted by sickly nightmares. The troll’s daughter, 
Solweig, Mrs. Moore, Lore, and himself had got inextric- 
ably mixed up. But toward the morning of the fifth 
day, the nightmare had blended itself in a dream. The 
transition had come with a thunderstorm, a beneficent 
thunderstorm, which had swept away the lurid visions. 
And the thunder itself had been gentle and kind, a new 
sort of thunder altogether, though quite well known, 
called thunderette. And it had brought rain, a 
fresh, purifying rain that cooled his forehead, that 
bathed him in peace. The rain, too, was of a new kind 
altogether, although quite well known. It did not 
fall, but it strove upward in beautiful, luminous drops. 
They hurried, hurried, hurried toward the light like 
the bubbles of air in a seltzer-water bottle. As he 
looked at the bubbles, they became more and more 
beautiful. Their sight filled him with an ineffable, 
mysterious joy, and then he knew why — ^he was one 
of them himself striving upward toward the light. 

185 


186 


THE PASSEE-BY 

At this, he had opened his eyes to a sunny morning, 
and a great peace, a great happiness, had come to him. 

To the remark of his nurse saying that he had just 
escaped a bad case of pneumonia, he had remained 
indifferent, collected as he had been in a meditation 
over his dream, which appeared to him hke a message 
of indubitable meaning. Some bubbles were slower, 
some stuck to the bottom for a while, then loosened 
themselves, but all, sooner or later, reached the light. 

There were moments when, in closing his eyes, he 
could almost Hve his dream over again, and recall that 
mysterious, strange joy that had come over him colour- 
ing all his feehngs since then, but the bloom, the 
intensity of which escaped him. It was more vivid, 
more vibrating than any joy felt in reality, yet with 
a magic quahty that eluded his efforts at recaUing it, 
as if after awakening he had lacked the brain centres, 
and the ethereally attuned nerves to perceive it. 

This to him had the gravity of an omen from which 
he could not distract his attention. He took it as a 
revelation of a state of being not possible on this plane 
of hfe, yet inevitable. The fact that he had perceived 
it, or that the impression of such a perception stayed 
by him when no earthly cause could ever produce it, 
nor his finest organs perceive it or conceive it — for, 
it seemed to him as if now the perfume of it only was 
left, while he had lived in its essence. This seemed 
to him in the order of those happenings called miracu- 
lous, because transcending our normal experience and 
our capacity for explanation. 

“ Read that over again, will you, please ? ” he said 
to Lore, whose voice had been droning meaninglessly 
in his ears. 


THE PASSEE-BY 187 

“ I knew you weren’t listening. Now I must stop. 
My throat is sore.” In reality it was not his throat 
that was sore, but his pride, a little. He had been 
reading with intelHgence and feehng, expecting some 
appreciation of both. Now he felt flat. “ I don’t 
understand this kind of love, anyhow,” he remarked, 
closing the book and getting up. 

“ What kind ? ” 

“ The kind I’ve just been reading about that em- 
braces everything and everybody.” 

Kamensky looked at him and smiled. “ Isn’t it 
hke the wind ? It hfts mountains of water on the 
ocean, and ripples a pond. There are hearts like the 
ocean, there are hearts like ponds.” 

“You had better rest now,” said the nurse, who had 
wandered in from the next room. 

“ I am not tired,” said Kamensky. 

“ I am not going to wait until you are tired. Your 
temperature is still sub-normal.” 

“ How much ? ” 

“ Never mind how much,” and with a knowing look 
she wandered back to her room. 

“ Well, so long,” said Lore, rising. 

Kamensky did not mind his going. Verses read 
aloud had scarcely ever for him the same meaning 
as when he read them himself. Real poetry he con- 
sidered in itself so rare a manifestation that the words 
which conveyed it did so only by their supreme power, 
a power so evanescent at its apex that it almost 
always faded in the interpreting intonation of some 
one else’s voice. 

He took the book from Lore, and then his eyes, 
after following the impeccable cut of his friend’s back 


188 


THE PASSEE-BY 

out of the room, rested once more with a thrill on two 
blazes of purity and joy — a white azalea and a red one, 
both in full bloom, which Mrs. Moore had sent him. 

The flowers had come from her with this book and a 
note. They had converted for him the common- 
place impersonality of his room into a sacred shrine. 
For it was a little of herself that had appeared hke that 
to him in a steady flame of purity and joy. It did not 
matter whether her choice had been intentional or not ; 
consciously or unconsciously she had expressed herself 
in the choice of these flowers, not cut, but living, 
living ! How they Hved ! How they sang to him 
ever since they had appeared to resurrect him. And 
they had brought with them her note with her slight 
perfume — the incense in the shrine — and these poems. 
The gift could not be superfluous, but it brimmed over 
his renascent aspirations. In each of these gifts he 
found something of her beyond what he was prepared 
to receive, and in turn each overwhelmed him with 
joy, a full serene joy expanding in him with life 
stronger and happier at every normal pulsation of his 
heart. 

In this he saw a fateful connection with his dream, 
its counterpart in the world of the senses. In this 
world, she it was who had come to tune his senses to 
their flnest perceptions, and he attributed to her his 
ascension from the turmoil of the senses to a love in 
which passion was etherealized into the fervid symbol 
of an indestructible union. 

It seemed to him now, as if any human interference 
was but ephemeral, and would vanish before what had 
to he. Lore was only an accident put in his way by 
the order of that law with which he himself moved now. 


189 


THE PASSEE-BY 

against which he had strayed when he had lost hold 
of himself in the surge of his senses, then a nameless 
enthralment had obscured his vision into seeing a 
nameless beauty, veihng her real beauty. Now it was 
clear to him that the tortures of jealousy, the pangs 
of humiliation suffered had been the ransom of this 
his error, his sin. The insanity of his flesh had had to 
be extirpated, torn from him with pain. 

The clamours of his flesh had tainted his thoughts, 
and he had sinned in thought only. But only through 
his thoughts it was that his flesh had writhed in pain. 

Yes, so it was. Here the whole connection between 
cause and effect lay bare. The teaching was made 
manifest, so that he shouldn’t waver in his faith when 
suffering should come through that obscurity called 
hazard, so that he should know that then, as now, 
suffering came according to that same law juster than 
any conceivable justice. 

He saw the nurse stealthily emerging from the 
next room, he feigned to be asleep, and she disappeared. 
Then he opened his eyes again vacantly on space. 

Since the spirit — an intangible, invisible force — 
existed, surely it was subject to the law as matter was. 
Only, with that most real part of ourselves which was 
intangible and invisible the working of the law re- 
mained intangible and invisible, too — until we were 
struck by it, not knowing whence or why. All the ills 
inflicted, knowingly or unknowingly, circled back to 
their origin — ^yes — as the waters of the sea, through all 
their transmutations into vapours, rains, and streams, 
circled back to their origin. 

Oh ! To live without hurting ! But one could not 
To hurt and to suffer, to hammer each other and one- 


190 


THE PASSEE-BY 


self into a progressive improvement was the human 
mission — this seemed clear, and the understanding 
of it immune from rebellion was its dignity. Re- 
bellion against the inevitable was the human indignity, 
the failure into which humanity was led by its intellect. 
To intellect the human race ascribed its own superiority 
to all other forms of life, and its own essential difference 
from them, when even in point of intellect there was 
more difference between Christ, or Plato, or Buddha, 
and the average man than there was between the 
average man and a clever walrus — in fact, any walrus. 

And here an amusing idea occurred to him, of a 
race evenly sustained to the highest human pitch of 
intellect using its superiority in making sport with the 
average man, as the average man made sport with the 
forms of hfe that were at his mercy, just for the plea- 
sure of killing, of destroying, mindless of terrors in- 
flicted in the same spirit with which monkeys, less un- 
wise, would destroy chronometers, if they could only 
get hold of them. How did the average man fail to 
see that the reckless misusage of his god-Hke power 
could not stand outside the undeviating law of justice ? 
Indeed, what if the Power above us should show us 
the same indiscriminate consideration as that illus- 
trated by photographs of emperors, kings, and presi- 
dents posing for the gallery, rifle in hand, one foot 
melodramatically resting on a bear, or a deer, which, 
from marvellous manifestations of life, had been con- 
verted by them into carcasses ? Why should these 
things not weigh in the balance of the universe that 
did not miss an atom ? Because they were done in 
self -ignorant wantonness ? — As if stupidity were a re- 
demption ! No, he felt sure that stupidity was not a 


THE PASSEE-BY 191 

redemption to itself, but that through self-inflicted 
blows it had to evolve into clear-sightedness. 

“ You’ve been sleeping. That’s right,” said the 
nurse, who now had caught him with his eyes staring 
into space, and she advanced, holding in one hand a 
capsule for him to swallow, and in the other a weekly 
magazine. 

“ What is it ? ” 

“ It’s starting a campaign against morphia. It says 
America has the specialty for opium ’way ahead of 
any other country barring China.” 

“ Sensational literature, eh ? ” he said, taking the 
magazine. 

“ No ! Why, most of the small drug stores would 
have to close if it wasn’t for their business in cocaine 
and opium.” 

Kamensky read the article with interest. 

“It is most vividly written,” he said, “ and is no 
doubt an act of courage, because it will strike at many 
pockets. A paper Hke this goes a long way toward 
redeeming America for many of another kind.” 

“ I should say so ! ” she conflrmed. “ It is perfectly 
elegant ! ” And she told him of what she knew of it 
from her own experiences, of how not only opium in 
various forms could be easily had, and was greatly used 
in large towns, but how the same thing happened in 
villages, and in quite small places, lost in the back- 
woods. She loved to talk about her experiences, and 
she did it in a dehcate, almost whispering, voice that 
soothed him into inattention to what she said. He 
heard distinctly only the 8 whisthng in the gentle 
murmur of her voice. Now and again the gruesome- 
ness of some detail came to him strangely blended 


192 THE PASSER-BY 

with her gentleness. Generally he went to sleep that 
way. 

The noise of his book of poems dropping on the 
floor startled him now out of the doze in which he was 
faUing, and all the joy of life smiled at him as he 
opened his eyes. His thoughts drifted nimbly up to 
closed problems, to find them yielding their secrets as 
if by magic in a burst of fight, and from fight to fight, 
in the joy of omnipresence, he floated through the 
spring-tide of eternal germination where pain was 
felt as an exhilarating leap toward the latent efflor- 
escence. 

“ Don’t you think fife is fair. Miss Bentham ? ” 

“ That’s so. You keep right on that way.” 

“ Where is my book ? ” 

“ You dropped it in your sleep. Here it is.” 

“ Have you read it ? ” 

“ Why . . . yes ... I have, some of it.” 

“ Do you like it ? ” 

“ Why, of course ! ” 

“ But you like the ‘ Herald ’ better. Now, be 
honest.” 

“ I was just only reading about the Batemans’ ball. 
Ain’t you sorry you ain’t going ? ” 

“ No, I am glad I am not going,” and he smiled, 
thinking of all the vain anxieties that his beard had 
given him ; then he opened the book of poems, and 
began to read, while the nurse went on with the 
“ Herald.” 

“ Oh ! Listen to this. Miss Bentham,” and in a 
voice rather solemn, sustained to a chaunting tone, 
he read a sonnet. After the last word, he stared at her 
in silence for a while, then he asked : “ Do you under- 


THE PASSEE-BY 193 

stand this ? Doesn’t it make you feel like spreading 
your wings ? It is wonderful ! ” 

“ My ! I call it a corker ! ” she chimed in, a httle 
bewildered. 

“ You do ? . . . Miss Bentham. Do you know 
what ? This was written neither for Americans nor 
for Enghshmen. It was written for the gods ! But 
you — are — everybody ! You don’t believe in gods, do 
you ? You wouldn’t beHeve me if I told you that I 
am a god now ! ” 

“ Open your mouth, please.” Then she inserted 
her thermometer under his tongue. His temperature 
must be “ ’way above normal,” she thought, puzzled. 


N 


XV 


IVTO use trying to read. The words that she read 
were empty, continually wiped out of her mind 
by other words, as beautiful as they were tragic. “ In 
my faith — in my hope — in my love.” All her happi- 
ness, all her sadness was in these words, since he had 
said : “ Be my way short or long — ^you must wait.” 

Yes. Wait she would. . . . She would wait until 
he came to take her. But how the pain felt as every 
obstacle exalted their feelings, lifted them to a realm 
consecrated by the austerity of their fate ! The sad- 
ness of hovering tragedy had stamped him with its 
seal, heightening him with the heroic beauty of self- 
sacrifice. He thought only of her, as she thought only 
of him. Theirs was a wonderful love ! . . . Yes, she 
understood now that he couldn’t bear to have it 
soiled by letting her name be exposed to the vulgar 
and insulting attention that a scandal would attract. 
He only thought of her, poor dear, dear boy ! ... as 
she could only think of him, of his broken career, of 
his ambitions shattered. No, she could not destroy 
all that. However intensely they loved, men needed 
other things beside love to fill their lives. It was hard 
to wait, terribly hard. . . . 

To find it less hard, she thought of a worse tragedy, 
in which their happiness might sink should they be 
194 


THE PASSEE-BY 


195 


unable to resist the rush of their passion. With a man 
as ambitious as he was, accustomed to action as he was, 
the lack of an object to strive for, and an enforced 
idleness, might bring him to brood on what he had 
renounced for her, and then ? . . . Oh ! It would be 
dreadful to feel herself the cause of it ! No, no, to bear 
what they did now was a thousand times better. Men 
were different from women, love was not all-sufficient 
to them. ... If she had been a man, she would have 
found in the happiness of their perfect love a new 
strength with which to overcome anything. . . . 

This thought disturbed her, then it seemed to bring 
in its wake everything that was disturbing. She had 
to get up and change the silly disposition of the 
photographs on the table before her, among which she 
noticed suddenly that the portraits of Lore and Fred 
stood side by side. They both stared at her at once. 

She effected the change, ignoring its cause. She 
was really seeking a better decorative motive in the 
alteration of their respective positions. She handled 
Fred’s portrait so that it looked the other way. But 
at this she was struck by the coincidence between the 
attitude of the original and that of his photograph. 
He, too, had been looking the other way for some time. 
When had she really seen him ? Just dining out 
among lots of people, or at home with lots of people. 
That was all. The market must be against him, and 
she did her best to think that she was sorry. But 
her effort only reflected back on her own hypocrisy. 
And she sighed with something hke a contraction of 
the heart, haunted once more by what had haunted 
her lately, night and day : her having to tell Silvian 
of Fred’s objection to his coming to the house. She 


196 


THE PASSEE-BY 

had meant to do it the last time, and then . . . she 
simply couldn’t do it ! She couldn’t before he had 
begun to read “ Peer Gynt ” to her, nor after he had 
finished. What they had said then had been quite 
sad enough without this thing, which seemed so 
brutal. But she would have to tell him. It would 
be too dreadful, if Fred should take it upon himself 
to do something unexpected. 

A flame shot to her face. She had such a premoni- 
tion of imminent peril, of imminent humiliation, that 
then and there she made a vow to tell Lore about it 
the first time that he came . . . presently. But 
then how, where would they see each other in future ? 
How much more precious than she had ever imagined 
his presence had now become. 

She wouldn’t have minded a scandal. . . . This life 
was just as bad. She looked furtively into a future 
full of subterfuges marring the beauty of their love. . . . 
Then suddenly she had to ring for tea to break the 
useless torture, and she settled in her chair, and 
resolutely fastened her attention on the book that she 
had been trying to read : 

“ Hence, in all countries, the chief occupation of 
society is card-playing, and this is the gauge of its value, 
and an outward sign that it is bankrupt in thought. 
Because people have no thoughts to deal, they deal 
cards, and try to win one another’s money. Idiots ! ” 

She closed the book. Yes, Schopenhauer was right, 
to be sure. She did not care particularly for bridge, 
either. But was one in society to do what one wanted, 
what one cared for ? In society one had to be con- 
stantly doing things for others that they didn’t care 
about, and for which they only criticized one. 


THE PASSEE-BY 197 

“ Bring tea, please,’’ she said to the servant who 
had come in. 

This “ Wisdom of Life ” was interesting. It told one 
just the kind of things that one had never noticed as 
having thought oneself. Still, she could not read. 
She did not feel hke reading. Society ! . . . Wasn’t 
it hard enough to belong to it ? And to think that 
there were people who longed to get into it ! Hadn’t 
she been in society, hadn’t Lore been in it, there would 
have been no fear of a scandal. 

Just as the tea-things were being arranged Lore 
came in. They shook hands, but the moment that the 
door was closed he kissed her hand that he had been 
holding, his lips gHding, ghding to her wrist, beyond 
it. . . . 

She withdrew it because it made her feel too queer. 
It was dreadfully sweet, but it almost frightened her. 
It made her frightened at herself. 

“ Oh ! I love you, Angela ! It is sweet, Angela, 
isn’t it ? ” he murmured. 

“ It is terrible. We oughtn’t to do it. I have no 
right to let you do it.” She sat down on the sofa 
behind the tea-table, poured the hot water into the 
teacups, and took that opportunity to avoid his eyes. 
How was she to tell him ? She would never have the 
courage to do it. 

“ Are you angry with me, Angela ? ” 

Then she had to look at him. His eyes, that could 
look so fearless, betrayed such anxiety and such pain. 
“ Oh ! No, no ! Dear, how could I ! ” 

“ You don’t know what you are to me. I never 
thought that I could love as I love you. Never have 
I seen, felt, the spirit as I see and feel yours, in ^your 


198 THE PASSER-BY 

eyes, in your face, all over you. Your body seems a 
barrier.” 

“ It is so . . . ” she murmured, surprised at hearing 
him formulate what she thought her own feehngs to be. 
“ Oh ! * It is hard ! Do you know, Silvian ? Some- 
times I feel as if, perhaps, it was wrong to wait. After 
all, what we fear seems so trivial. . . . What would 
the world mean to us if we were happy ? ” 

“ Yes ... I know . . . the world is trivial, but 
still, we live in it. When you are surrounded by bee- 
hives you had better not stir them up. And then, 
I have a curious feehng, if you Hke — but there ! as 
much as you may beheve in me, I must believe in 
myself too. Before I offer you my hfe, I must prove 
to myself that it is worthy of you.” 

“ Yes, I know, you are ambitious.” 

“ No, Angela ! It isn’t ambition. It is barely 
honesty. I shall never really be worthy of you, who 
are so wonderful. But if I should fall too short of 
what I should be, I can’t tell you the misery that that 
would mean to me. It is only by action, by achieve- 
ment, that I can reach the level where you must wait 
for me, if you beheve in me.” 

“ Yes, I understand you . . . and yet, you see I 
believe in you ; I love you just as ybu are. And then, 
one never knows what may happen. Sometimes we 
delay doing things, and then when we want to do them, 
somehow they can’t be done any more. I feel so 
afraid, Silvian ! . . . Silvian, at times I think that 
I love you more than you love me.” 

“ Angela ! What makes you think that I don’t love 
you enough ? ” 

“ I don’t know. . . . Just a feeling.” 


199 


THE PASSEE-BY 

“ You mustn’t give way to such feelings. You don’t 
know how much it hurts me to hear you say ...” And 
his eyes said more than the words which he could not find. 

“ Forgive me, dear ! I know I ought to be happy 
with what I’ve got. If I only stop to think of what 
my life was before we met. . . . But then, I can’t help 
thinking, too, of what it might be like if you should 
have to leave. Do you ever think of it ? When . . . 
where you may be sent next ? How far ? I cannot 
be in your Hfe what you are in mine. What else have 
I got ? You are all that I’ve got to five for. . . 
Her eyes were moist. 

“ Angela ! Angela darling ! It isn’t right, you 
mustn’t give way to such ideas ! If we think of the 
end of things we are bound to make ourselves miser- 
able. If I don’t tell you about my torments, it is not 
to spoil this present happiness. Do you know what 
I, too, feel ? I feel as if some time we will regret not 
to have made more of it. It will seem such a pity that 
we shouldn’t have made more of it. There is for us 
a law stronger than that made by men. Their law 
is made to curb the crowd, and cannot fit the individual 
who doesn’t belong to the crowd. But all the same, 
we must humour the crowd, and not break ostentati- 
ously its pet morals. It would be bad for it to have 
its pet morals broken as it would be bad for a child 
to have his belief in Santa Claus destroyed. Yet, 
isn’t it rather a pity to waste one’s life, to abdicate, 
how shall I say ... to renounce one’s own happiness, 
in deference to bourgeois principles which are not ours ? 
Why not give them the appearance that they want, 
and take the happiness that we want ? Give to 
Caesar what belongs to Caesar.” 


200 


THE PASSER-BY 


Instead of answering she gave him a cup of tea. 

“ Don’t you think so ? ” 

“ Don’t ask me, dear. ... Is your tea all right ? ” 

“ Perfect ! Do you remember when you asked me 
if I worked hard to be a superman ? Do you re- 
member what I said ? ” 

“ I think I remember everything you ever said.” 

“ Well, I felt then what I feel still more now, that 
we have nothing in common with other people. The 
more I have seen of you, the more I have felt it. It is 
really as if Fate had drawn us together, because we 
are both so different from other people. We had to 
gravitate inevitably toward each other. Think of all 
the people you know, of the women you know ; don’t 
they find the complete fulfilment of their fives in rush- 
ing about society ? To be everywhere, to be always 
in evidence, isn’t that all they are striving after ? 
And the men? To make money down town, more 
money, always more money, and after that to rest 
their minds in anything superficial, refreshing high- 
balls, good dinners, childish plays. Are you like them ? 
Am I like them ? Now, my beautiful Angela, now 
come, do you feel like one of them ? ” 

“ What they feel I don’t know.” 

“ Are you happy with what makes them happy ? ” 

“ Perhaps they are not happy,” she smiled, pleased 
at teasing him. 

“ How naughty you are ! Am I like them ? ” 

“ No, Silvian. You are like no one else.” 

“ Well, can’t you see yoursefi mirrored in myself ? 
In my admiration for you, for all your beauties, for all 
that makes you unique, so different from all the rest ? 
Can’t you see yourself in my love ? You’ve made of 


201 


THE PASSEE-BY 

me another man from what I was before I met you.” 
His voice, lowered, was intenser. “You have set 
burning in me a fire that leaves me no peace, and I 
see the same fire in your eyes. No use denying it — 
you can’t ! You can’t ! And you are mine that way 
as I am yours. I claim what I have awakened in you, 
what dies out and does not exist for any one else but me, 
by taking which I would not be robbing any one of a 
single atom of what belongs to them.” 

The intense insistence of his conviction overpowered 
her more than the actual words by which it was con- 
veyed. The actual words called for an easy reply, 
which she hesitated to express. It was so obvious that 
she could not think that he had overlooked it. But if 
she expressed it he might then bring some unanswer- 
able argument against it. Her faith in him made her 
expect it and dread it. All the same, she ended by 
saying : “ How can you help robbing any one of 

everything ? . . . I don’t feel my love divided in 
many portions.” 

“ You think so ? You think so, because the love 
I have awakened in you ecfipses all the others by its 
glow — but it cannot destroy them. It leaves them as 
they were before I met you. Tell me, honestly, did you, 
when we met, did you feel for any one else the way you 
feel for me now ? ” 

Instead of meeting his searching gaze she lowered 
her eyes. “ No, I didn’t, of course not.” She felt 
something specious in his argument, but she could not 
think that he was intentionally, or even consciously, 
specious, while she felt such a strength in his conviction 
that hers weakened in the coUision. “ My heart was 
empty, empty then ! ” she said. 


202 


THE PASSEE-BY 

“ Yes, your heart was starved for what it longed for, 
as mine was, always expecting the event, the great 
event that would make it Hve.” 

“ You felt that way, too ? ” 

“ Yes — and strange as it may seem, I knew that the 
event would come.” 

Now it seemed to her that she had felt the same. 
“ Yes, it seems strange as you say, but it is so, I am 
sure. Do you know, the day I received EHzabeth’s 
wire, asking herself and you to dine with me, I had then 
something hke a presentiment ? Do you know how 
she worded the telegram ? ” She smiled. “ ‘ Can 
I dine and bring Lore with love EHzabeth ? ’ I tried 
to convince myself that I found it simply funny, but 
I could not ; I fore-felt the event, too.” 

“ There you are ! It was Life claiming its share in 
you — Life ! What was most real in you struggling 
out to Hght. Isn’t it so ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Oh, Angela, just think, would you now stifle all 
you hoped and longed for because . . . because this 
love shows now in their true hght your other feelings ? 
I imderstand, quite. ... You are surprised in finding 
them so diminished, but they haven’t changed ; you 
are simply able now to see them as they really are, as 
they were, instead of having to deceive yourself into 
taking them for more than what they reaUy are.” He 
gazed at her. How weU he knew her ! He was going 
to reveal her once more to herself. “You see, dearest, 
the love of a heart like yours is like the free wind which 
hfts mountains of water on the ocean, and ripples a 
pond. Until we met you measured your love by the 
ripples on the pond, you even tried to think that the 


203 


THE PASSEE-BY 

ripples were waves, I dare say, but now you can’t any 
more. It isn’t your fault, it’s all the fault of the pond.” 
He finished with a twinkle of humorous mischief in 
his eyes. 

She couldn’t help smihng as it occurred to her that 
“ the pond ” had stopped rippHng now, and had be- 
come threatening. 

“ What is it, dear ? ” he asked, seeing in her smile a 
confirmation of his assumption. 

“ Something very serious and disagreeable. I don’t 
know why I smile — Silvian ? ” 

“ Yes ? ” 

“ I never had the courage to tell you, but now I 
must. ...” 

“ What ! ” he said, rather upset at luissing fire with 
his simile of the ocean and the pond. 

“ I am afraid ... it will be better ... I am afraid. 
I have been told that I mustn’t see you any more . . . 
here. He minds your coming here. . . .” 

As she spoke be saw the painful embarrassment that 
every word cost her. And he was jarred by them as 
by a false note, and dismayed at discovering suddenly 
something that he ought to have foreseen, and which 
showed to him the measure of what he could miss seeing. 

“ Why ? . . . Does he think ? . . .” came from 
him impulsively, then he stopped short, offended by 
the accentuation which more words seemed to put on 
the indehcacy, on the bad taste of this unexpected 
intrusion between them. 

“ I don’t know. It happened before . , . before 
that Sunday at Elsbury Park. There was no reason 
. . . then.” 

Now he felt a grudge growing vindictively against 


204 


THE PASSEE-BY 

this husband, who used so bluntly the sledge-hammer 
of his authority. Perhaps owing to his amorous train- 
ing in Latin countries, he saw in Mr. Moore a ridicule 
with which to him husbands, just as such, were 
generally branded. They were so prone to ostentate 
their authority, hitting ponderously with it next to 
the spot at which they aimed — as if that kind of power 
had ever been of any use with women, when they had 
not wished to abide by it. And he felt as if now he 
had been challenged, and that his pride was at stake. 
He looked downcast, while he had a sudden gUmpse of 
the solution which the sledge-hammer must precipitate. 

The grief that she saw in him went to her heart. 

“ What are we to do ? . . . What shall we do ? . . 

“ Well meet outside. ... In the country, on Sim- 
days. . . . Here in town whenever . . . wherever we 
can. . . .” 

“ Oh ! I hated to tell you . . . and now all is so 

dark. . . She looked round the room as if to 

anticipate, to prepare herself to its aspect, when he 
would no more come every day, as he had been used 
to do, and she felt as if his absence was going to leave 
a dark gap in every coming day, darkening each one 
from the very morning. 

He still said nothing, as if stunned, bringing out 
as clearly as he could the role of victim into which the 
marital sledge-hammer had cast him and her. But he 
wondered how soon he and the new conditions of their 
meetings would prepare her for the solution which he 
had so long hesitated to approach. Now the time 
had come to give a small tea at his rooms, to which he 
would ask her with other people first — then alone, 
after she had once broken the ice. 


XVI 


coming out from her dressmaker’s she gave 
the next address to the groom, and the carriage 
rolled off. 

She looked at the clock before her in the coup6, and 
it was with a painful relief that she found that this 
one more visit would put her beyond the temptation 
of going to Silvian’s rooms for to-day. 

Now she barely managed to keep her balance, and 
this through a disorganization of her life, in which she 
did not recognize herself, moving, moving all day long, 
always out, driving or walking from one place to 
another, meeting him sometimes at lunch, at tea some- 
where else, very often not meeting him at all. 

Once she had been to a tea-party at his rooms. It 
had been such a success that he meant to repeat it. On 
the second floor of an old-fashioned, brown, stone front 
house, in a side street, between Fifth and Madison 
Avenues, he had discovered the most unexpected 
apartment, consisting of the conventional front and 
back room, but this opened on a very spacious studio 
of beautiful proportions, where a Steinway grand 
seemed quite unobstrusive. The whole suite was 
interestingly furnished — at least, what she had seen of 
it, one room and the studio. From Spain, where he 
had lived for several years, he had got a good head by 
205 


206 


THE PASSER-BY 

Goya, and a small Greco. From Italy, a Guardi and 
some beautiful damask curtains. From Constanti- 
nople precious rugs. 

“ Why don’t you drop in some time, when I haven’t 
got a party ? We might have a quiet chat all by 
ourselves. We don’t see each other at all the way 
we see each other now,” he had said, without insisting 
any further, but she had seen in his eyes aU the longing 
that she felt herself, and she had heard in his voice 
an appealing sadness. Yet she had not answered 
anything that time. Later, at a lunch, she had half 
promised, but on his suddenly growing insistent she 
had avoided fixing a date, getting out of it by saying 
in jest that she might drop in at any time. 

Since then, however, the prospect of going alone to 
his rooms had become the centre round which her 
desires and her fears had been surging in a conflict 
more and more intense, and about which her thoughts 
circled all in one way, as it were, without ever meeting 
in a clash that might have resulted in some decision. 
So she neither meant to go, nor to refrain from going. 
She only put off matters by going to other places, one 
after the other, dreading the half-hour of solitude 
during the day when she might be irresistibly attracted 
to him. What stood in the way of her going she 
could not have said. It was certainly not the thought 
of Fred. If Fred could have understood anything, 
she would have clung to him. Beside, if Fred had 
understood her, her life would have been different. 
But Fred had been and had become still more absent 
to her except for watching her. If he seemed to watch 
her less closely, she had discovered that he watched her 
enough to know that Silvian had stopped calling. 


THE PASSER-BY 


207 


This information, although with a certain intended 
indirectness to safeguard a scanty amount of dignity, 
he had obtained from a servant. Yet the discovery of 
it had not offended her as it might have offended her 
once. It had simply made her feel exonerated from a 
responsibihty which he assumed on her behalf. It 
might have made it easier for her desires to overcome 
her fears if, as ominous as her fears were, unchar- 
acterized by definite reasons, they had not risen as her 
desires arose, holding her relentlessly on the supreme 
point of an exhausting balance. 

If she wondered at her own indecision, it was to 
get at the entity within herseK, which, unseizable and 
unyielding, held her from giving way to her wishes 
and to her desires without revealing itself in definite 
motives. Why shouldn’t she have gone ? What 
and who did she care for as she cared for him ? For 
whom did she sacrifice his and her happiness ? No 
answer. Fear of a scandal ? There needn’t be any 
scandal. She could go without anybody knowing it. 
There was a doctor’s sign on the window of the first 
floor — Dr. Charles Shlesinger. Why couldn’t she be 
caUing on a doctor should she be seen going in or com- 
ing out of the house ?' There was also the florist in 
the basement next door. Over and over again she 
had hesitated about stopping at the florist’s, where 
she might have made up her mind quite close to the 
danger line. And many a time she had wondered 
what kind of a doctor Charles Shlesinger was. His 
name alone sufficed to send a thrill coursing through 
her veins as she remembered it, standing out in jet- 
black letters on the white enamel plate in the corner 
of the window. 


208 


THE PASSEE-BY 


She thought of the window now, and she thought of 
the florist. Why shouldn’t she stop and buy some 
flowers ? And then ? . . . Would she ... A shudder 
ran all over her, rippHng again and again, as she fancied 
going up the steps, ringing the bell, asking if Mr. Lore 
was in, walking upstairs. . . . 

There was an alluring kind of fright in it all. But 
no, she would never have the courage to overcome so 
many obstacles. Still ! Just because she would 
never have this courage, she might afford to stop at 
the florist’s. To have done that much toward trying 
to see him would soothe her longing. And she ordered 
the groom to stop there. Then after ahghting she 
sent away her carriage. 

First she looked at the flowers in the window, then 
sideways, turning her head as if something chafed her 
neck, but with a sharp glance, all the way up and down 
the street, scanning it for anybody that might know 
her. She saw none among the nearest pedestrians, 
but beyond them more came and went. Among them 
there might be the one person who knew her. Again 
she glanced right and left, again no one. This might 
have been the moment. But it was already gone, a 
new set of people swarmed now in the background. 
Her heart beat exhaustingly fast. She knew that she 
would end by going in, since she was in the clutches of 
this spell ; she could not endure hving poised on an 
edge hke this indefinitely, then why not go now and 
have done with it all, and feel free again ? Once 
through that door she would be safe. It would only 
take her a few seconds to get behind it, less than she 
had already wasted here, and afterward . . . 

At the thought of what the afterward might be, her 


THE PASSEE-BY 


209 


head for an instant reeled. No, she was not in a state 
to walk quite naturally up those steps. Now, if she 
dismissed all that from her mind, and really thought 
of some flowers to buy, she might then, in a moment 
of lucid calm, decide and act. . . . But act at once. 

What flowers would she ask for ? . . . And when 
she had bought the flowers ? What then ? Then 
she would be where she was now. She wouldn’t be 
any more self-possessed. Suppose she should have 
the pluck to walk up those steps now. 

She looked at them, there a few yards off, and her 
heart faltered. Then she became conscious of people 
noticing her long delay at the shop-window. She was 
certainly doing her best to make herself conspicuous. 
It came into her mind how it sometimes happened 
that people told her : “I saw you yesterday in such 
and such a place, and you wouldn’t look at me.” 

The figure of the florist behind the glass door, his 
nose almost flattened on the pane as he seemed to 
watch her with his wall-eyes, that made it im- 
possible to tell if he looked at one or not, unnerved her 
completely, and she went into the shop. 

“ What flowers ? . . . Well ... let me see. Have 
you got hlies of the valley ? Plants, not cut.” 

“ Yes, madam.” ; 

She was glad to remember that he had his own bell 
at the door, but she conjectured that it avoflld take 
some time for his servant to come down and open it. 
In the meanwhile, she would have to stand there on 
the threshold trapped behind the glass door in sight of 
every one who went by. 

“ Yes, those will do,” she said, examining some 
plants of lilies of the valley. “ Yes, those two.” 


o 


210 


THE PASSEE-BY 


“ To what address do you wish to have them sent ? ” 

She did not answer at once, because she had not 
foreseen the question. To give her own address would 
be to disclose her identity — then if he saw her going in 
next door ? Suddenly she took paper and pencil, 
and wrote down the address of a hospital. 

“ For the children’s ward. Be sure to send them 
before night, will you, please ? ” 

All the way to the door, which he opened to let her 
out, the florist assured her that the flowers would be 
sent at once. “ Nothing else that we can do for you, 
madam ? ” 

And as she passed out into the street and walked 
away he still stood on his threshold, following her 
with his eyes. But he did not see her go up the steps 
of the next house. She went straight by it, so that 
he would never have suspected her intentions. And 
the further she went the freer she felt from the clutches 
of the spell. Was it her sending those flowers that 
had done it ? 

Later in the evening she thought, at times, that she 
had bravely fought and won against temptation, and 
that she had a strong will, but in looking forward to 
the next day she wondered whether her will would be 
strong enough to last once more until evem’ng. 


XVII 


T^OUR days — four days without seeing him. . . . 

She thought this while she watched in the looking- 
glass the coiffeur’s deft manipulation of her hair, built 
up in a lofty powdered head-dress, which altered the 
look of her face. 

At times, to see in the glass the hairdresser’s fingers 
lightly at work on her head while she had the barest 
sensation of their contact, created a state of agree- 
able torpor in which her thoughts were tangled up, 
soothed by inertia ; then one thought stirred, gave 
the alarm, and they all swarmed up again restlessly. 

Four days without seeing him ! Yet it wasn’t 
altogether her fault. On the evening of the second 
day she had decided to go and see him the next 
afternoon. And then instead she had gone to the 
Lorimer Wilson’s tea, given for Regina Cielo, the 
Italian actress, so sure had she been that he would 
come there. But he hadn’t any more than Regina 
Cielo had. It had been explained how the great 
Itahan actress had been seized by one of her own 
pecuhar headaches, still, even so, the party given for 
her had not been a failure. But what difference had 
that made ? Her attention had all been keyed up to 
see who came in, with the expectation of seeing him 
at any moment. And in this expectation she had 

2II 


212 


THE PASSER-BY 

stayed very late, and had left very miserable. How 
miserable she had been ! All the sadness of her hfe 
had come upon her at once. Why ! Why had he 
kept away ? It would have done her so much good 
to see him, just to hear his voice, without going through 
the awful ordeal of a visit to his rooms ; the clandestine 
part of that going to his rooms was so dreadful. She 
might have telephoned to him before leaving for the 
Lorimer Wilsons. But then she had been so sure that 
he would be there. And besides, she suspected that 
some of the servants listened when she ’phoned. Oh ! 
The atmosphere that surrounded her was too dreadful ! 

As to his attitude, she felt averse to questioning it 
too closely, feeling even without scrutiny a certain 
amount of intentional cruelty in his abstaining from 
going where he might have met her. For if he could 
have expected only vaguely to meet her at any other 
time and place, he must have felt pretty sure that they 
would have met at the Lorimer Wilsons. 

All the same, she had done her best to see him to-day. 
But when she had stopped in front of his house, pre- 
tending to herself that she would not go in, but only 
see what it would feel like to try to go in, the figure of 
the florist had appeared behind his glass door like a 
foreboding shadow. She had wondered whether he 
could see her as she saw his head turned in profile, but 
suddenly he had smiled and bowed to her, and then 
with a creepy feeling she had realized that he had been 
watching her all the time, with one of those eyes of his, 
which looked sideways out of his head, and on that, 
impulsively, she had walked away. 

All this seemed ridiculous enough now, but then she 
had been affected by the ubiquitous watchfulness of 


THE PASSEE-BY 213 

the florist, as a child by a loud “ booh ! ” in the dark- 
ness. 

“ You are quite an artist,” she said to the hair- 
dresser, who was standing a little way back, his head 
tilted on one side, contemplating his achievement. 

“ Yes, madame, eet eeze Hke you say. I have done 
a pairfaict creation.” 

He gave some flnishing touches here and there, then 
collecting the tools of his art took leave with an elegant 
gravity. 

After he had gone she did not stop looking at herself 
in the glass, only now she did so with more discrimina- 
tion. She thought the powdered hair becoming, very 
becoming ! She wondered what impression she would 
make on him now, in a few hours, at the ball. 

In the meanwhile she was rouging her cheeks. She 
did look her best ! She could quite understand the 
temptation of rouging. Then the patches. . . . How 
those women knew . . . 

Her meditation was stopped abruptly by the image 
of Fred looming up in the glass before her. It gave 
her a start, so unhke himseK it was, white-wigged and 
in knee-breeches and silk stockings. But he still wore 
his eyeglasses. 

“ Haven’t you got your lorgnette ? ” she said, 
turning round. 

“ It’s down in the hall with my cocked hat. You’d 
better hurry. People will begin to arrive in a minute.” 

“ I am dressed,” and she turned round to the mirror 
to finish her face, annoyed at the hardness of his tone 
in the presence of her maid. 

He felt sure that she had turned to the mirror to 
avoid looking at him. He knew why only too well. 


214 


THE PASSEE-BY 

It had come to the point that she could not even con- 
ceal her dishke for him. He wondered whether she 
suspected that he suspected. She had only herself 
to blame, though. She ! She it was who had driven 
him to ask questions of the servants about her move- 
ments. He had done it tactfully so far, but he didn’t 
care a damn if he should have to do it without tact. 
He would use detectives if necessary ! If some one 
had to be fooled, he would not be the one. 

As he wandered round the room, giving her the 
sensation that he must discover somewhere some 
alarming sign, he stole glances at her, caught, in spite 
of himself, by the lovehness of her transformation and 
goaded by it, goaded by the aristocracy of her t3rpe, 
more dazzhng and yet more subtilized under the 
accentuation of her lofty powdered hair. He knew 
how seductively she could smile, but he could not 
imagine her smihng so for him. He knew that she 
could be passionate, but she had only an obstinate in- 
dijfference for him. At moments he felt that if he 
should be drawn into observing her too persistently 
he would lose all self-control. What was there behind 
that mask of obstinate indifference ? Still, her 
duphcity would not screen her long, by G — d ! And 
for an instant he dwelt upon the ghastly hours that 
he had spent a few days before, when, on being told 
by the groom that she had sent away the carriage from 
a florist’s shop, he had gone there to find that the 
florist’s shop was next door to that cursed hound’s. 
A horrible suspicion had come to him that he must 
be on the right scent the moment he had heard of her 
sending away the carriage from that shop, and then, 
after a harassing day in his office, had come those 


215 


THE PASSEE-BY 

still more ghastly hours of walking up and down that 
infernal street without ever losing sight of that door. 
He knew now that she would scarcely have gone into 
that house, since he had found her at home, where he 
had driven straight from there. And yet he could not 
beheve that she would have sent away the carriage 
from such a neighbourhood without any other object 
than just the flower-shop. 

He stole a glance at her sitting in front of the 
mirror, and the sweeping hne of her neck, charming 
with almost the gracihty of adolescence, appealed to 
his senses and fanned his rancour. Every hving curve 
with which it sprang out of her costume moved before 
him in a disquieting picture, which seemed as rare and 
forbidden as was his memory of it, and with this 
memory the remoteness of the time which had last 
refreshed it. From that time things had come to such 
a pass that they only met in tilts of acrimony. It 
seemed years since . . . since they had come to- 
gether otherwise. Not since that night when they had 
dined at Sherry’s. From that time, something like a 
chasm, as invisible as it was impassable, had widened 
between them. 

As he looked at her, her beauty affected him, as if 
a subtle poison floated out of it. 

She got up, and from her gown, full at the sides, her 
waist sprang slenderer than ever, while the patches 
on the painted flush of her face added a note of petu- 
lance to her expression. He watched her endeavour- 
ing to look uninterested. 

“ How do you find my costume ? ” 

“ Very extravagant,” he answered curtly, then he 
fretted inwardly at the presence of her maid, who 


216 


THE PASSEE-BY 

fussed about quite unnecessarily. He felt as if she 
must know that he had something to say. 

Without a word, looking tall and imperious with 
her high coiffure, and her profile set haughtily, she 
went out. He followed her, caught up with her on 
the landing of the staircase, and in a voice that he 
disliked to hear, altered by his emotion, said : “ Stop 
a second. I’ve got something to tell you.” 

She stopped, and cast on him a cold, calm glance 
that seemed full of impertinent defiance to him, and 
she waited, looking the picture of indifference, while he 
tried to find his words. 

“ When . . . when I ask you not to receive some 
one in my house, you understand that I don’t wish you 
to see them, or to talk to them outside of it. Do you 
understand that ? ” 

For an instant she almost gave vent to the impulse 
of tearing off her gown, and giving up the dinner and 
the ball. Her face fiamed brighter than the rouge 
colouring her cheeks. Then resentment gave her a 
better strength, while her eyes, fixed fearlessly on his, 
sparkled darkly. . 

“You think you are very clever and powerful in 
ordering me about, and in spying on me. But I tell 
you this, that if some women follow the fine of least 
resistance, others who have spirit will rush where 
resistance is greatest. Do you understand that ? 
And this, too, that when you shall have taken upon 
yourself all that share of responsibility by which I 
might guide myself, I shall feel as free, as free as the 
wind ! Do you understand that ? Think it over. 
And then, if we don’t agree, we can always divorce, 
can’t we ? ” 


THE PASSEE-BY 217 

On this, intoxicated by a wonderful buoyancy, she 
turned round and descended the staircase slowly, 
majestically, keeping to the middle of it, one hand on 
the banister, so that he could not pass either way, nor 
walk by her side, but had to keep on dodging her train. 
Step by step, she enjoyed the consciousness of it hke 
a tangible sign of her triumph. 

In the drawing-room he could not help ejaculating : 
“ You are crazy, by G — d ! ” 

She, very calm and collected, inferred the superiority 
of her position from the powerless violence of his 
utterance. But she did not show her consciousness 
of it by looks or by words, knowing that he was a man 
of many resources, and that she might not score as 
easily again. With as modest an air as she could 
muster, while all of her was throbbing in triumph, she 
answered : “ What I have said is not crazy, but very 
reasonable. Just reflect upon it.” 

Now he kept silent. He even regretted having 
given way to his indignation. She had no heart. Not 
a bit of it ! His indignation, unsupported by a telling 
power, only pleased her. 

And while she arranged some flowers on a table, to 
lessen the awkwardness of the silence, he noticed 
nothing, stunned by her unexpected declaration, 
against which he had not a thing to say for the present. 
Now, now for the first time in his Hfe, he felt that 
everything on which he rested and on which he counted 
was as shifting as sand. If she whom he had trusted, 
whom he still loved, in spite of himself, whom the most 
sacred laws bound to him by faithfulness, if she failed 
him, in what could he believe ? Until this moment, 
the difficulties of negotiating his loan had given him 


218 


THE PASSEE-BY 


increasing anxiety without destropng his expectation 
of setthng his affairs in good time. But now, in some 
way that he did not attempt to analyse, all of the 
world with which he was connected unfolded itself 
suddenly under a sinister aspect — an aspect of which 
he had never even had a suspicion. Although not 
superstitious, something Hke a presentiment stole over 
him that all was finished. This loan, which he had 
already failed to secure from one firm, went through 
very much the same phases with the second. What he 
had suspected then, dismissed from his mind once, 
came back to him now with the lucidity of certainty ; 
he was betrayed. Some one in his office was selling 
inside information, which meant absolute ruin. Then 
she would leave him, as a rat a sinking ship. 

She was still arranging some fiowers, looking like 
one of them herself, and then it happened to him to 
see her as an ahen, as she would be when he would be 
ruined, and she would have left him. And her beauty, 
never so great, as if he had never really looked at her 
well, became also sinister. He realized that he had 
never known her. No. He was afraid that there were 
depths in her of which he had never had any idea, and 
this now bewildered him. 

“ Mr. and Mrs. Belerose,” announced the servant. 
This shook him in his brooding : “ Hallo, Jimmy ! ” 
“ HaUo, Fred ! ” 

Then they both laughed, he merely as an appropriate 
echo of Jimmy, who said : “ Well ! I couldn’t think 
of you this way ! ” 

“ Why ? Am I not all right ? ” 

“ Bully ! Bully ! Barring your eyeglasses.” 

Mrs. Belerose and IVIrs. Moore were comparing notes 


219 


THE PASSER-BY 

about their costumes. “ Does anybody know any- 
thing about this ball ? ” asked the former. No one 
answered. 

“ But you ought to know something,” said Mrs. 
Moore to Jimmy Belerose. “ How is the house 
inside ? ” 

“ I didn’t bmld it.” 

“ But you know the architect who did.” 

“ He won’t give away his professional secrets.” 

“ What a prig ! Now, you are not a prig. Tell us 
something.” 

“ All I’ve heard is that we are not to smoke at 
supper. It wouldn’t be historically consistent. There 
won’t be any cigars or cigarettes passed round. Fred, 
you’ll have to hide to smoke, unless you take my tip,” 
and he produced his cigarette case from a waistcoat 
pocket, and his cigar-case from another. 

“ Mr. Emory ! ” announced the servant. 

He came in, holding up a lorgnette to his eye ac- 
customed to the monocle. He felt his part and looked 
it, in marked contrast to Jimmy Belerose, who was in 
for a “ stunt,” and Fred, who was going through the 
worst hour of his life. The latter shook hands with 
his guests as they came in, feehng absolutely apart 
from what he and they said, absorbed only in the in- 
difference of her attitude, wondering what her scheme 
was, and by what means he could know it and thwart 
it. But below these thoughts which came floating 
up in his mind, disappeared and returned unchanged, 
disassociated with any answer or solution, there was 
a black brooding, a deep sore in his pride, a sense of 
perfldious injustice, defining themselves out of his 
aching sense of stupor. 


220 


THE PASSER-BY 

At the dinner-table, while he listened to the deHghts 
of an automobile trip through Italy, on one side, then 
to the refreshing joys of camp-life in the Adirondacks 
on the other, and the sight of his wife, renewed con- 
tinually the feelings of the blow which had stunned 
him — ^he felt a violent desire to tear off the tablecloth 
and to smash every bit of porcelain, crystal, and glass 
that lay on it. If he controlled this violence, it was 
only to store it until he could vent it with the effect 
which he needed. Some one would have to pay for 
all this. . . . 

She, on the other hand, felt in a state of exhilaration 
at having emancipated herself from her attitude of 
concealment, of hypocrisy, out of which she had been 
unable to find her way until now. Now she realized 
that if she had not dared to go to Silvian’s rooms it 
was only not to fail toward herself, not to lessen her 
self-esteem in stooping to concealment ; now that he 
knew that she was aware that he spied upon her, 
whatever she did was done openly. And since he 
spied, since he undertook to withdraw every shred of 
confidence in her, taking upon himself the responsi- 
bility of all that she did, what sense of responsibility 
would she have left ? None ! 

Now she remembered what Kamensky had said one 
day, that the gap which made her anxious only 
existed when one tried to follow two diverging lines. 
Sooner or later one was compelled to choose be- 
tween them. And now she had chosen ! And now 
the yoke under which she had struggled for so 
many years was broken, leaving her free. And in 
this freedom, on which she was going to act, she 
saw at last all the nobility, all the beauty of life 


THE PASSEE-BY 


221 


in which she had believed as a young girl, and lost 
sight of later while groping in an acquiescence that 
stifled her individuahty and its aspirations until life 
had no more meaning for her. “ And a more valuable 
purity will result, like the limpidity of elements that 
have undergone the chaos of elaboration ” — the 
meaning of these words came clear to her suddenly, 
and her mood bordered on intoxication at the great 
light that they disclosed. 

She could scarcely hsten to Mr. Emory, on one side, 
and to an influential financier on the other, for whose 
wife and himself, at the request of Fred, she had 
secured an invitation to the ball. The financier and 
his wife were not in society, and at first he had been 
rather stiff, but now, after some champagne, he was 
becoming a “ child of nature,” and confessed amusingly 
all the trouble, verging at times on tragedy, that he 
had met in getting into his costume. It was in- 
effectually that his wife, who watched him from across 
the table, tried to stem the flow of his amusing sim- 
plicity by her dignified stare. He was having a 
“ bully time ” of it, and life was too short to care about 
the rest, when he was “ in for it.” 

Mr. Emory spoke of Rome, of Prince So-and-so, of 
the Duchess of So-and-so, calhng them by their Chris- 
tian names, or their nicknames, unfolding their 
genealogy, with which he was as familiar as with that 
of the aristocracy of France and England. 

Then he began telHng her a startling episode in 
the life of GiseUa da Benevento (Duchessa Gisella da 
Benevento), while she gazed at the orchids spread in 
a low bed in the centre of the table. To-morrow their 
life would have passed out of the fibres through which 


222 


THE PASSER-BY 

to-night it expressed itself fully, in a subtle riot of 
colours, in a fragrance still subtler, but they would 
have fulfilled completely what they had been born to 
achieve. Theirs would not be death, but complete 
self-fulfilment in beauty. She gazed at them, while 
the name of Gisella droned every now and then in her 
ears, feeling as if now she partook of the fife of the 
orchids, and they of hers, of a fife detached from all 
paltriness, of a life of self-fulfilment in splendid ignor- 
ance of human laws and prejudices. What was right ? 
What was wrong ? All depended upon the point of 
view. From a sufficient height all was perfect. The 
fact of being was perfection, if one had the courage to 
be, and not to conceal one’s being. 

This state of mind endured to the end of the dinner. 
It glowed pulsating like the pulsating glow of the fire- 
flies in the nights of her girlhood latent with glorious 
possibilities. It endured still as she drove to the ball. 
Somehow she felt transfigured. On arriving at the 
Batemans’ house she felt as if she was living in a 
fairy tale which was real. She might always have 
hved like that, only somehow she had not thought of 
it before. Although this feeling struck her by its 
resemblance to one experienced in a dream which 
came to her at times, in which she discovered that she 
could fly, she knew that this was no delusion. Every- 
thing enhanced this sensation, the sober magnificence 
of the hall, and the succession of rooms of a correct 
splendour through which she and Fred passed with the 
stream of guests continually arriving. 

The revelation of the secrets so long withheld 
swarmed in the air now. Everybody was telhng 
everything to everybody else, as the marveUing pro- 


THE PASSEE-BY 


223 


cession traversed the rooms slowly. Here was a 
Nattier of extravagant daintiness. It had cost one 
hundred thousand dollars. But, then, it had been 
purchased from an historical chateau, and was the 
only one among several inspected which fitted the 
assigned space that it now covered. There were few 
pictures, comparatively speaking, but each one had 
an interesting story preceding its purchase, and ac- 
companying it. One room — it was the smallest, it was 
true — ^was entirely hung with Boucher tapestries. 

The contagious effect of the general curiosity 
troubled Mrs. Moore. It was tending to disintegrate 
the magic of the mood in which she walked airily. 
She went from room to room of an enchanted palace, 
which the attitude of the crowd tended to convert 
into a Barnum show, where multifarious stunts went 
on simultaneously. In spite of herself, she had to 
hear that the Boucher room had cost eight hundred 
thousand dollars. 

Now their progress was impeded by an agglomera- 
tion, in the midst of which Mr. and Mrs Bateman, 
impersonating Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, 
could be discerned standing to receive their guests. 
And then whisper after whisper soughed through the 
crowd as a breeze through a summer foHage , — Chateau 
de Brugieres . . . the Batemans’ house was a copy of 
the Chateau de Brugieres. This was the salon des 
terrasses, on the threshold of which the Batemans 
stood receiving. And both host and hostess were 
overlooked, almost forgotten, in a general craning of 
necks toward the next marvel that they offered this 
night to New York society. And as the formality of 
being announced was disposed of, the crowd emerged 


224 


THE PASSEE-BY 


into that wonderful salon des terrasses, which makes 
in the Chateau de Brugieres a unique architectural 
feature. But whereas the four big windows of the 
original salon des terrasses overlooks the Loire from 
that marvellous succession of terraces that inspired 
Victor Hugo in his “ Chant a la Loire,” here they 
opened on a hmitless avenue of maples in full summer 
foHage. On either side of the avenue the trees spread 
in a thick forest. Immediately under the steps, 
that ran the whole length in front of the salon^ and that 
led to the avenue, a large fountain shimmered, play- 
ing with the hght of the blue sky overhead, while two 
swans floated on it craning gracefully their pHant 
necks. Further on the avenue encircled a raised 
lawn. Beribboned sheep as white as snow grazed on 
it, while shepherds and shepherdesses, who seemed to 
have stepped out of a Vatteau, played on flutes and 
danced a graceful minuet. 

Everybody was surprised ; whichever way they 
looked, inexplicable miracles of beauty confronted 
them. Above the trees, a blue sky shedding Hght was 
traversed by a flight of white clouds — and the clouds 
moved. From tree to tree little birds were seen flitting. 
Somewhere a turtle-dove was cooing. These things 
were noticed with almost childlike wonder. The steps 
leading to the avenue were descended almost in trepida- 
tion, and it was in a similar childhke attitude that 
everybody wandered about the avenue stretching to 
infinity. People accustomed to the ostentation of 
extravagance were almost overcome. They touched 
the trees, their leaves, pulling some off. But the trees 
were real, and so were the leaves. However, as some 
of the guests ventured into the forest beyond the first 


225 


THE PASSEE-BY 

row of trees they were startled by their own images 
advancing to meet them, and then they found them- 
selves immediately looking into a mirror. The mirrors 
covered every wall of the large hall, from top to 
bottom. 

Jimmy Clare and Reggie RoUisten Adee seemed to 
multiply themselves. They were ever3rwhere sup- 
ported by a band of sateUites tendering the most 
interesting informations : the grass on which the 
sheep grazed was real grass, and the sheep had been 
starved two days to make sure that they would 
graze. No, the cotiUion was going to take place in 
the salon des terr asses. The figures ? Oh, no ! 
They could tell nothing about the figures — ^yes, the 
shepherds and shepherdesses were danseuses from the 
Metropohtan. 

These things to which she had to listen, while they 
were told to Fred and Mr. Emory, jarred on her. She 
wondered if Fred meant to stick to her throughout 
the evening. It would be unbearable. While to- 
gether, they had been ignoring each other so completely 
that Mr. Emory must have noticed it. Yet even the 
prospect of this possibility did not lessen her exhilara- 
tion. 

She took Mr. Emory’s arm, and descended the steps 
to the avenue. With him she went round the fountain. 
And she Hked him. He said flippant things, but he 
said them with a grace enhancing the magic of the 
fiction that surrounded her, and with it the magic of 
her mood. Then, before leaving the fountain, she 
stole a glance backward, and her elation grew as she 
saw Fred caught on the steps by the influential finan- 
cier and his wife. They knew scarcely anybody here. 


p 


226 


THE PASSEE-BY 

and Fred would have to take care of them, as the 
financier seemed to mean a great deal to him. And 
this, too, put a fresh note in her feelings, altering her 
idea of Fred, divesting him of that infalhbihty which 
he had always made her feel so depressingly. And 
now she abandoned herself to the wonders of this 
enchanted night. It pleased her to wonder. But she 
could not wonder long. Every one that they met 
would give them information as to how things had 
been done. Eevolving lanterns of blue glass, flecked 
with white, cast sky and clouds on the ceding, further 
lightened from behind the cornice which framed it. 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Ashly, coming up to her from 
a marble bench under a tree, “ I wouldn’t advise you 
to sit there. Really ! The idea of having those 
little birds let loose ! ” 

The httle birds were a disappointment, anyhow. 
They did not sing as they had been warranted to do. 
Bewildered by the crowd, they flew here and there in 
an erratic way. Occasionally one of them flung itseK 
against the mirrors, and then fluttered all the way 
down to the ground, where it lay dizzy and panting. 
Only one dove persisted in cooing. 

But the minuet was a success. On the raised lawn, 
sloping gently toward the audience which was crowd- 
ing more and more all around it, the shepherds and 
shepherdesses offered an ideal picture against the 
woodland background reflected in the mirrors behind 
them. Every now and then a confused murmur of 
admiration went up from the crowd, at the grace of 
some particular step, at the dainty interlacing of an 
unexpected figure. 

At one time a sheep, which had been grazing steadily. 


THE PASSEE-BY 227 

suddenly looked up, then began rollicking on the spot, 
after which it lowered its head threateningly as if 
making up its mind on which of the dancers it should 
butt. A panicky flutter ensued among them, a dis- 
organization of the minuet, one or two dainty little 
shrieks, then Jimmy Clare was seen breaking through 
the crowd at the head of a band of gorgeously flveried 
servants. The next instant he was grappling with the 
bellicose sheep, which was immediately overpowered 
and hustled away. 

This incident amused everybody. Mrs. Moore, too, 
had to smile, but this flaw did not disconcert her 
mood. 

“ Voilci une hr Ms aussi malavisee que him des 
hommes. Sa fortune lui a tourne la tete.^^ 

She looked round, it was the French ambassador. 

A moment later she felt something like an electric 
shock ; her eyes had met Silvian’s, and he came up 
to her. 

They exchanged some casual remarks, but through 
them she perceived a gravity which was a new note 
in him, and which turned his sumptuous disguise into 
a compelhng reality. His shaved upper Hp revealed 
a firmness about his face which would almost have 
amounted to hardness had it not been for the correct- 
ing softness of his white wig. 

Now wandering on the edge of the crowd, they soon 
dropped Mr. Emory and the French ambassador. 
Then they strolled along the avenue, where the supper 
tables were being set up. 

“ Why didn’t you come ? ” he whispered. 

“ I couldn’t. ... I wanted to, but I couldn’t. . . .” 

“You don’t know what these days have been to me. 


228 


THE PASSER-BY 


Day after day I have been waiting for you. Every 
minute a new hope and a new disappointment.” 

“ I know ... I know. ... I have been living 
that way myself.” 

“ Then shall we never see each other ? ” 

In a very faint voice she said : “We shall.” 

He had thought that absence would do more than 
insistence, and her tone now confirmed his assumption. 

They strolled round the fountain, exchanging re- 
marks on the grace of the swans, because there were 
several people grouped about it. The swans glided 
from one group to another expecting to be fed. Some 
people threw them bits of “ crackers,” but once or 
twice, as a lady tried to entice one of them with some 
food into letting itself be petted, it hissed ferociously 
at her. 

In a tacit understanding they left the fountain 
and mounted the steps. On the terrace in front of the 
salon they lingered, looking back on the avenue 
crowded and brilliant. 

At the end the dancers and the sheep had dis- 
appeared, and in their place a full orchestra in costume, 
with its cappelmeister, was settling down. People 
were evidently arranging parties for supper, and 
taking possession of tables. 

“ Are you very hungry ? ” she said, with a shy, 
quizzical glance. 

“ No — no ; I am . . . only longing to be with you, 
to see something of you, to talk with you, to hear your 
voice.” 

Slowly they wandered on through the salon, then 
out of it, further from the terrace, moving slowly from 
picture to tapestry, from tapestry to picture, their 


229 


THE PASSEE-BY 

backs turned toward belated groups and couples going 
to supper, appearing themselves only more belated by 
their interest in some rare piece worthy of a museum. 

This inspection led them out of the beaten track 
through a part of the house that she had not seen on 
coming in — ^through a library completely deserted, in 
which they ceased to notice masterpieces, but only its 
size, lacking the desired character of intimacy, through 
a charming sitting-room of a tender azure-grey, but 
too brilliantly lighted, until they found themselves on 
the threshold of a boudoir, small, discreetly dim. 
Where had she seen it before ? . . . 

During a flashing instant this place appeared to 
her hke a famiflar one, but then so intensely that the 
impression spread in her consciousness with a strange 
afterglow of fateful meaning. Then immediately 
the actual reasserted itself, aboHshing the vision like 
a curtain faUing on a mystery revealed. 

“ Isn’t it strange ? ” she said. “ I could almost 
swear I have seen this place before. You know what 
I mean — that queer feehng of having already lived 
the same moment.” 

“ Yes, I know. I feel it too. Kamensky says . . . 
We were just saying the other day ...” 

“ What did he say ? ” 

“ We said it was something hke ... I mean to say 
that presentiments, premonitions, are hke shadows 
cast by reahties. Sometimes we see the shadow flrst. 
You see, you had seen the shadow of this moment, and 
just now you were struck by its recollection. I know, 
I have felt the same.” 

“ Have you ? ” 

“ Yes. I have seen you different, changed, and 


230 


THE PASSEE-BY 

to-night, when our eyes met, I saw you as I had seen 
you during those last days when we couldn’t meet. 
You are different, never before have I felt you so 
near.” 

“Yes — I am different,” she murmured. Then she 
sank upon a sofa, and he near her. He talked to her 
almost in a whisper, and all that she heard was a 
reverberation of her own feehngs. But while the 
sense of her emancipation had come to her with an 
exuberance of spirit, difficult to keep from manifesting 
itself in some form of audacity, now that she acted 
in freedom, all tendency to audacity vanished. His 
whisper came to her in words more ardent than she 
had been prepared for, at which she lowered her eyes, 
the more as her heart throbbed faster. 

“ Oh, Angela ! Look at me ! Look into my eyes. 
Don’t lower yours. Don’t let me live by glances only. 
Yes, so . . . so . . . Let me look into the depths of 
your soul. Oh ! How they fascinate the depths of 
your soul. . . . My own grows dizzy. . . . You are 
too beautiful. . . .” 

She felt as if his last words had swooned upon his 
lips, as they touched her neck, her hair behind her ear. 
And she could not move ; the magic aima that had 
been floating round her was enfolding them closer 
and closer, vibrating more intensely as it gathered 
nearer — a power now that held her in its ineluctable 
spell. . . . 

Again his words came to her : “ Angela. ... I have 
breathed of you. ... let me ... let me drink your 
soul upon your hps. . . .” 

Then his lips were on hers in a caress protracted 
languidly, almost beyond endurance, until, like the 


231 


THE PASSER-BY 

outfolding of a flower that should free its core, they 
took possession of hers — and they two were floating 
in a suspense of unnerving bliss. 

The unspeakable chasm into which they might be 
swept intensified his bliss to a supreme acuity. Then 
he came to himself. “ Really ! We are crazy ! ” 
he said. 

No reflection of his fear was in her eyes. “ Silvian ! 
Silvian ! I love you ! ” she sighed. 

“ Angela. ... It is sweet, it is divine ! ” 

“ Yes — divine.” 

“ Angela, it is a ghmpse into our world,” came his 
ardent murmur. “ Angela, it is only a ghmpse. We 
must enter it, Angela. We must five in it, if only for 
an hour, it will be an hour bright in eternity, like the 
sun in space.” 

And the magic aura became effulgent. And in this 
effulgence her reason was dissolved. But deep under 
her reason, as if her reason had been but one of many 
outer veils and the most evanescent, something of 
herself contracted in apprehension. 

“ Angela — why don’t you say one word ? One 
word, one word by which I may be sure of what I want 
to think, to beheve. I have dreamed of it, Angela. 
That hour has come to me in my dreams ; some 
dreams come to us Hke shadows cast by reahties. We 
see the shadows first. Oh ! It must be ! It has to 
be ! I only want to know that you know it as I do ! 
. . . The ecst£isy in which we will faint is ours. You 
know ! You know that you will never taste it except 
with me. You know that should it not be now, to- 
morrow, the time that you will say, it might never be 
in aU eternity. What is here for us to take might 


232 


THE PASSEE-BY 

never be if we don’t take it while we can, never, 
never in all eternity for either of us.” 

But his hps could say no more, heavy as they were 
with the craving of all his being for hers, inexorably 
drawn as they were by hers, by the essence of her 
beauty that he had drunk from her. 

After a glance at the door he leaned toward her, 
and once more ghded his lips over her neck, her hair 
behind her ear. Unperceived by her he watched the 
door with the corner of his eyes, while the slight per- 
fume emanating from her hair, the contact of her neck, 
sent sparks through his veins. He shpped one arm 
around her waist, felt the sinuous form of her body. 
Suddenly he clenched it, while his lips were crushed 
against her, leaning under the surge of his passion. 

But immediately he was up, afraid of himself. 
“ What folly ! I am mad ! I am mad ! . . . Angela 
... we can’t go on this way. It will kill us. To- 
morrow . . . come . . . we’ll have tea at my rooms.” 

Dazed, her mind groped for words, besieged, pressed 
by the clamour of her blood. But deep beyond the 
veil of reason, beyond the clamour of her senses, at 
the core of it all, an apprehension, vague, yet stronger 
than both, ruled her. She got up, too, and with the 
attitude and the feeling of guilt, she said faintly, it 
was almost a breath : 

“ Let me go,” and she went towards the door. 

He was there before her, standing in the open space, 
exquisite of courtesy in all the daintiness of lace and 
ruffles, his eyes only of a compelling penetration. 
She lowered hers, but could not evade his voice, warm, 
pressing with words that weaved his passion into the 
tumult in which she groped. He was transfigured, 


233 


THE PASSER-BY 

finer — as if with a heightened fife — and so was she, by 
the fiction of the occasion that bewildered her with its 
insinuating seduction, that drew every fibre of this 
evanescent self of hers to an abandonment as evan- 
escent as if her real self should stand absolved later in 
its reassertion. 

They walked slowly in the relentless murmur of 
his voice, she absorbed it through all her senses, so 
that she did not see, feel, or hear anything save an 
interlaced, floating lovehness, and the daring of 
ethereal caresses, and the persuasion of an ineludible 
melody. “ To-morrow I shall be there waiting for 
you, as I have been waiting all these past days. But 
if you won’t see me to-morrow, you shall never see me 
again. I can’t five any longer as I have been.” 

They were approaching the salon, re-entering into 
crude reahties. Far off they saw a couple looking at 
something on the wall. 

“ Will this be our last meeting ? Shall we never 
see each other again ? ” 

Then she stopped, looked straight into his eyes, her 
heart chilled at the idea of not seeing him again, and 
she said : “ Yes, to-morrow I will come.” 


XVIII 


I N the drawing-room she Hngered, puUing down her 
veil under her chin, drawing in her under lip, as if 
to help it sHp into place, and she saw her face 
in the glass, merely suggested as through a cloud of 
gossamer, the glow of her cheeks, of her hps, of her 
eyes, etherealized. 

She was not struggling. Two opposite currents were 
struggling in her, and her mind supplied arguments 
for both, and the best arguments for the strongest. 
The weakest current in her appealed to her sense of 
fear, and the strongest made her aware of the inanity 
of all resistance. It grew with opposition, the power 
of obsession was on its side. She might delay her 
surrender, contemplate it from every side by circHng 
round it, but in this contemplation the circles grew 
closer to rush into a vortex that would draw her to 
its core. Now her conscience and her fears strove 
together, caught in the vortex. Her mind watched the 
helpless struggle, and she, assailed by fears and by 
righteous alarms, only tasted in them a pungency that 
held her in a breathless thrill. 

“ And that is I,” she wondered, gazing at the re- 
flection in the glass which confronted her Hke an un- 
known personahty. 

Through a cloud of gossamer, the glow of her cheeks 
of her hps, of her eyes, attenuated, ethereahzed, held 


234 


THE PASSEE-BY 


235 


her attention with an uncanny fascination. She saw 
herself beautiful, and she felt herself despicable. The 
word love evaded her appeals for assistance. Since 
the previous night she had feared to examine the 
sentiment which would have made him content with 
one hour of bHss, and yet he had invaded her to such 
an extent that her very essence seemed to be changed, 
and now it seemed to her that to recover her own 
essence she must free herseK from this one that pos- 
sessed her, that drew her inexorably to him, and that 
in the complete consummation of her obsession only 
she would find herself again and her freedom. This 
conclusion, however, intermittently recurring, shook 
her every time, so that her breath failed her. But the 
point of the vortex to which she had been drawn had 
a strange power of mixing terror with irresistible 
allurement. No, she was not struggling, she was torn 
by two forces that were in her. All she did was to 
cling to everything on her way, automatically delaying 
the unavoidable issue to which the strongest force 
was drawing her. She clung to this room now, 
watching herself in the conflict to which she was a 
prey, conscious of her fall and conscious of her callous- 
ness, as if her finer sensibilities had been silenced by 
an anaesthetic, and were only capable now of a passive 
resistance, of an inert judgment, of an automatic action, 
defending her against the rush of the mightier impulse 
by merely gaining time in the straightening of her veil, 
the pulling on of her gloves, while all of her seemed to 
say : “I am coming, I am coming ; just let me catch 
my breath. . . .” 

In the hall, as she was turning the door-knob to 
let herself out, the bell rang, and as she opened the 


236 THE PASSER-BY 

door, before she could think, she found herself facing 
Kamensky. 

He was rather pale, and his upper lids, usually de- 
fined by a single sharp fine, seemed heavy now, and 
gave him a look of physical weakness, which she saw 
changed into a touching distress as he reaHzed that 
she was going out. But the next moment he con- 
trolled himself, saying : “ Not at home ? Don’t mind 
me if you are going out.” 

“ I am glad you caught me in,” she said, clinging 
to the imexpected respite from her obsession that he 
offered her, finding a sudden assistance in the expres- 
sion of his face, which absorbed her attention. “ Are 
you well ? Are you sure you are quite well ? ” 

“ Quite,” he said, closing the door. “ Why ? Do 
I look ill ? ” 

She was repossessing herself. In the drawing-room 
she found the sedateness of its normal atmosphere, 
and she knew that the change emanated from him, 
it spread steadily from his personahty, routing, dis- 
sipating her obsession : 

“ No, but I can see that you have been ill,” she said, 
and yet his very look of weakness braced her, clarified 
her mind. Now her passion seemed withdrawn, its 
fire latent, but collected and clearly defined from her 
reason. 

“ Won’t you sit down ? ” she said, as her attention 
was diverted from herself to his attitude of nervous 
embarrassment. 

“ No, thank you,” he said, “ I won’t stop long . . . 
unless . . .” and he smiled, his embarrassment show- 
ing more evidently, puzzling her and giving her a 
sense of obscure anxiety. 


THE PASSER-BY 237 

“ Unless ! ” she echoed, affecting a tone of lightness. 

“ Unless . . . well . . . but weren’t you going out ? 
I don’t want to keep you long.” And then, the 
difference between dream and reahty was clear to him, 
and the strength came to him to wish to know how far 
he had been indulging in one, and to what extent he 
must abide by the other. It meant the leap from 
what he had desired with all of himself into what had 
to be. Now or never, he thought, and he cut the 
bridges behind him : “I had come to say good-bye. 
I am leaving. I meant to leave to-morrow.” 

“ To-morrow ! Where for ? ” 

“ For Russia,” he said, searching her eyes desperately, 
fastening all his hopes in the eagerness of her question. 

“ For Russia ! . . .” she repeated, gazing at him 
as if she found it hard to take in the meaning of what 
he had said. Then she pulled up her veil : “ To- 
morrow ? ” 

“ Yes . . . unless . . .” he stopped abruptly, his 
head swimming on the edge of the leap. 

She gazed at him decidedly anxious now, fearing 
to guess the condition hinted at, not daring to invite 
its complete expression. 

To him her attitude contained the possibiHty of 
hope, but only the possibility. Perhaps it meant that 
he could hope; perhaps he was making a horrible 
mistake. In the meanwhile his silence grew heavier 
with the weight of what he had to say, until it be- 
came unbearable, and then feeling giddy with his 
forced daring, he uttered the words that had to be 
said : “ Yes, there is nothing more for me to do here 
. . . unless . . . I . . . could be of any use to you. 
Does this surprise you ? If you only knew what you 


238 


THE PASSEE-BY 

have been to me, what you are to me. My whole life 
devoted to you would not begin to express the way I 
feel. Let me tell you ! Let me tell you ! ” he pleaded, 
at a pained expression on her face. Now, after he 
had dared all, and the worst had happened, he re- 
covered his full presence of mind, and from the awful 
void left by the sudden dissipation of all that he had 
cherished an heroic exaltation sprang up within him. 

“ Nothing that I want to say can hurt you. You 
will never see me again. I understand this now. I 
see I have been mad. But you cannot be oiffended 
by what you have been in my heart, in my thought. 
Oh ! Ever since the first time, that time I saw you 
across the house at the Opera, and then Lore brought 
me to you, in your box ; I begged him to. Because 
at once I knew. It was all my life that was being 
drawn to its destiny. You see, now, when I shall 
doubt everything, myself, then in your image I shall 
find God, and goodness, and light. You cannot mind 
my telling you this. You see, this is all I wanted 
to say.” 

“ Thank you, my dear friend.” She was moved 
and a little stunned. “ I am glad you told me. It 
will help me. We all have our dark hours.” 

“ Yes. We all have our dark hours. And the 
darkest when one drops from sublime hopes to their 
annihilation. This is a dark hour for me. But one 
has to pay for everything. I am papng for such 
moments of happiness as I shall never live again. I 
have hved up to the summit of my happiness on earth. 
I shall live by its memory now. I shall not look 
backward to it, nor forward, but upward. Of course, 
it was folly, sheer folly in me. Tell me, do tell me if 


THE PASSEE-BY 


239 


you mind my saying these things to you. It does me 
good. I can’t tell you how much good it does me. 
You see, of all that I have conceived of beauty in every 
sense, you are the visible manifestation. I come to 
you as a worshipper goes to the image that represents 
divinity to him. It is not to ask for anything, but to 
know that this communion has existed. That this 
has not been a delusion of my senses. Then, when I 
shall think of this as true, I shall cling to it for salva- 
tion, when one must beheve in something to cling to.” 

“ Yes,” she whispered, not trusting her voice. 

“ Thank you ! ” He, too, almost whispered, his 
voice made husky by emotion. “ I tell you these 
things so that you may know what you have been, 
what you will be for ever to one human being. It 
doesn’t matter whether it be myself or any other 
fellow-creature. Sometime you may find comfort in 
it. The only claim I feel to this confession is that I 
have strived to be worthy of what you have been to me, 
in my thoughts, in my aspirations . . . yes ... I 
may say that. I have made for you a shrine in my 
heart. And my Hfe has been the lamp that burns 
before the shrine. God grant that I may hve hke that 
to the end. And now I have one prayer.” 

With trembhng hands he opened something hke a 
silver jewel case that he had been holding. From it 
he took a half-dried flower. “ Take this, and give it 
back to me. It is one of the flowers you sent me. It 
has passed, as the dreams that it resurrected have 
passed. Be it blessed by your hands before coming 
with me on the hf e-long journey on which I start.” 

She took the poor, half-dried thing and put it to her 
bps. 


240 


THE PASSEE-BY 


Kneeling, he offered her the open case, shaken by 
his tremor, and she replaced the lifeless flower in its 
tiny coffin. Then bending lower and lower he picked 
up the hem of her gown, and almost on the ground 
he kissed it fervently, as if for a moment all of him 
were gathered in an intense prayer. 

A deep tenderness, a great pity welled up in her, 
with her tears, creating a new hght under which the 
aspect of her world was changing. It was like a vast 
shifting of scenes. A whole new setting rising in the 
place of the old setting that was tumbflng away on 
every side. 

He rose ; he receded toward the door and was out. 

The room was empty, it seemed empty of all 
that had made her hfe, and of all that which had 
destroyed it. 

It could not be ! It must not be ! She could not 
be left like that, and she was up^just to hear the front 
door’s slam announce one more passer-by. 


XIX 


O NCE outside, Kamensky wandered away like one 
dazed. At the end of the street he saw the 
traffic streaming across Madison Avenue, around him 
the houses persisted in their immobihty, and all of it 
was unreal to absurdity, compared with the momentous 
upheaval of a vaster world frowning in a fateful twi- 
light. Austere as the passing of a hfe, it disclosed 
under a new dawn a new range of summits lost in a 
distance of too great a majesty to leave occasion for 
rebellion. In the exquisite tenderness that had shone 
in her when she had kissed the flower which he now 
pressed in his waistcoat pocket against his heart, he 
found the supreme force, the force to acquiesce, for 
he understood at this moment that force in its ideal 
measure surpassed the measure in which it betrayed 
its vanity by rebeUion. 

Suddenly, after he had said to her all that had been 
condensing within him up to that moment, his happy 
exaltations appeared Hke the effervescence of a folly 
seething as it sank in the abyss that cut the past 
adrift from him. 

This was the lonehness of which the prescience had 
held him in its spell one day, when he had felt it as the 
only link of union between her and him ! The memory 
of that moment recurred so vividly that its identity 
with this present state of being gave him a start. Yes, 
Q 241 


242 


THE PASSEE-BY 


he had been holding her letter, he had closed his eyes, 
and it had come to him as if wafted from her ; then it 
had returned in a clearer spell while he had been 
dressing, and it had held him nowhere save in this 
state through which only he was to be one with her ; 
and now it had come identical, with a weird new pain, 
with a weird new vision of the world, of hfe seen and 
felt as through a sense newly born. The pain was 
deeper than any pain felt before, but it held no germ 
or shade of despair. It was hke the shadow that is 
under the frame enclosing every life, and it was as if 
he were slipping from under the frame of his own Hfe 
to emerge on to another plane. And what was finest 
of her was with him — would always be with him — 
he knew it, and she would know it — and the fiction of 
time and space would be abolished. 

“ The wisdom that comes from the heart. . . 

She had said that : poor wisdom, poor heart ! 

Where were the words that could convey to her 
now this which he knew, and for which there was no 
name, or no image to which it could be compared ? 
He would write. Yes, he would write ; but this dragged 
down to encompassing span of words would no more 
be itself, it would be sadness, loneliness, hope, it would 
be height and depth above, and below faith and sorrow, 
but still always on the level of all the fleeting un- 
reahties of the world which had been cut adrift from 
him ; it would only be the unreal shadow of itself. 

Until she herself had come where he was, his words 
would be hermetic, or convey to her the vagaries of 
madness. It could not be otherwise. And yet he 
must write to her. She did not know yet, and he could 
not let her stray away from him while she did not 


243 


THE PASSEE-BY 

know yet. No, he could not ! He could not leave 
her lost when, in her turn, she would awake in this 
dawn disclosing a new range of summits lost in an 
overwhelming distance. He could not. From dawn 
to day they must fare forth as one. In the fateful 
twilight she must not be alone. . . . What a step ! 
He must be with her, space abohshed between them. 

But now ! Now ! Now when her eyes did not see, 
when the links were faihng with faihng words by which 
he could reach her, how to hold her now from plunging 
into the forgetfulness of the real, and from cleaving to 
the unreal ? 

To-day, to-morrow, the passing glow that had 
burned in his heart of flesh would hold her, but after- 
wards ? Afterwards, when the memory of the glow 
had grown faint ? When the glamour of a paltry 
desire would once more besiege her clothed in the 
light of a sham love ? Then ? Then what ? 

This was what he must shield her from at any cost. 
And this thought gave him no uneasiness. There was 
no definite idea as to how, but it would occur to him 
at the right time, as the solution of a child’s problem 
would occur to a man. Lore — ^that was all he had to 
contend with. Lore he had influenced unconsciously ; 
now, he must influence him consciously. There was 
in him a power now that would be equal to moulding 
the ephemeral incongruities of Hfe into the shape 
fixing them within their legitimate limits. Lore 
he would have to mould and fix to the place that was 
his. But he would have to see him, and at once. 

Strangely enough it was Lore himself who opened 
his door, as she herself had opened the door of her 
house, but at the sight of Kamensky he stood on the 


244 THE PASSER-BY 

threshold for one instant too disconcerted to speak. 
For one instant Kamensky saw plainly disappointment 
and hostility on his friend’s face. 

“ Am I de trop ? ” came on Kamensky’s lips, while 
he stood perplexed at first, then with his veins running 
cold. 

“ No. . . .” Yet Lore stood on the threshold 
barring it. 

“ I came to say good-bye. I am leaving to-morrow.” 

“ Leaving ? Leaving for where ? ” 

“ For San Francisco, on my way to Russia.” 

“ To Russia ! What, all of a sudden ? I am 
sorry ! ” At the unexpectedness of this news. Lore’s 
hostility subsided. He couldn’t dismiss Kamensky 
this way. And immediately he made up his mind to 
make Kamensky shp out of his bedroom door should 
she happen to come before he went. “ Come in ; 
I must see something of you before you go.” 

“ I shan’t detain you. I’ve got things to do,” 
explained Kamensky, as he walked in. Once inside 
the room he went on. “ I just came for a minute to 
see if we couldn’t dine together.” In the meanwhile 
his eyes shot surreptitiously aU round him. The 
apprehension that had made his veins run cold re- 
asserted itself again. It came uninvited in spite of 
his effort to discard it as worthless, as degrading. Was 
Lore expecting her ? . . . The perfume of lihes of the 
valley, their profusion, the tea-tray ready with just 
two cups, the absence of the servant, Mrs. Moore, 
whom he had found on the point of going out, might 
all have been coincidences, but they coiled and un- 
coiled gliding too persuasively into one another. And 
then that perfume ... he had just breathed it in her 


THE PASSEE-BY 245 

room around her ; it had a voice, it had a look, it was 
herself ! 

“ What time shall we dine ? ” asked Lore, who was 
still standing in his anxiety at the thought that the 
two might meet at the front door as Kamensky went 
out. 

“ At eight ? At the Waldorf ? Will that do 
you ? ” 

“ Perfectly,” concluded Lore, in a tone of finality 
that sounded unmistakably hke an invitation for 
Kamensky to leave. 

There was nothing more to be said, and so he went, 
his heart heavy with the impression that in dismissing 
him. Lore as good as admitted covertly his impatience 
to be left alone, and the reason why, as if his was one 
Gi those rights acknowledged tacitly for the sake of 
the form, but still acknowledged and recognized. 
Yes, Lore must be expecting her, and she may have 
meant to go. He saw it. And hadn’t he foreseen it ? 

Hadn’t he foreseen her besieged once more by the 
glamour of a paltry desire, clothed in the light of a sham 
love ? She would not go to-day, nor to-morrow. . . 
but afterwards ? . . . 

The question had already occurred to him, but now 
its renewal came with a twinge that made him writhe 
in pain and anger. He must battle with the actual. 
And as he walked back to the Waldorf, a mountainous 
indignation surged and swelled up in him against Lore. 
Once more on earth, all the earthly violences fought 
within him towards one end — that of crushing once 
and for all his friend. Nor did his long expectation, 
until a little after eight o’clock, soothe him, but by 
then he was collected, with all his force under control. 


246 THE PASSEE-BY 

with the plan ready by which he would free her from 
all danger. 

Lore appeared finally, his face set and hard 
through his fiimsy mask of cordiality, and this expres- 
sion did not change, even after they sat down in the 
Palm -room before their oysters, and their glasses 
filled with champagne. At this Kamensky’s buoyancy 
became almost spontaneous. He knew that the 
resistance to such a man’s courtship was like an insult 
to his ambition, and tinged the desired issue almost 
with the satisfaction of revenge. 

“ Well, Serge, why the devil have you made up 
your mind to leave us so suddenly ? ” 

“ Why ? I told you just before being ill that I was 
going to leave soon.” 

“ Yes. ... All the same, you are erratic ! ” 

“ Erratic ? . . . I don’t see why. I have been 
lingering on without any particular purpose. So I’ve 
shaken myself up, and off I am going. It’s about 
time.” 

“ Well, I suppose w^e all want some shaking up at 
times. It does one a lot of good. But I shall miss 
you.” 

“ So shall I.” Remorseless for his disloyalty, he 
looked straight into Lore’s eyes, in which he saw all 
the malleabihty of character that he had never inten- 
tionally availed himself of. “ Why don’t you come, 
too, part of the way, at least ? ” 

Lore smiled, shrugged his shoulders and said : 
“ This place is vulgar, but this soup isn’t bad. Creme a 
Voseille ? ” 

“ Yes. It tastes of spring, doesn’t it ? With a 
sufficient appetite it would have quite a poetic charm.” 


247 


THE PASSEE-BY 

“ Like a woman, only more reliable, eh ? ” 

Kamensky smiled indulgently. 

“ My dear Serge, we all invest women with the 
charms that make them most desirable to us. But you 
simply make goddesses out of them. Why the devil 
don’t they let you down flat and hard every now and 
then ? ” 

“ Because I avoid misunderstandings, perhaps.” 
But Lore’s remark had pricked him. “ Some men 
are inchned to look at women to whom they make love 
as if they were of a different and hostile species, and 
rather inferior than otherwise. The opposite sexes 
seem to arouse hostihty in each other as much as they 
attract each other.” 

“ From which you deduce the superiority of platonic 
love ! ” 

“ What nonsense ! ” said Kamensky, concealing 
some irritation ; then, to deviate the course of the con- 
versation as well as to snub his friend deHcately, he 
added : “ Why platonic ? Do you know the original 
meaning of that expression ? ” 

“ Well, I suppose that Plato started it by virtuously 
advocating the kind of love which you call nonsense.” 

“ Yes, only it was not in regard to women that he 
advocated it virtuously, as you call it.” 

“ Ah ! ” 

Kamensky gave a glance at the sole au beurre noir 
that the waiter was holding before him for inspection, 
and nodded with approval. 

“ Those Greeks were extraordinary scamps,” said 
Lore. “ Still, they had no champagne, and no cigar- 
ettes ; they had to make up for it somehow. Damn ! 
There goes that band again ! ” 


248 


THE PASSER-BY 

“ I am accustomed to it now,” said Kamensky. 
“ Not a bad tune. What is it ? ” 

“ The girl from somewhere. . . . I’ve had it in my 
ears all night.” 

“ Ah ! At the ball ? How was it ? ” 

“ Rather overdone. Very gorgeous. But rather 
overdone. By the way, have you seen Mrs. Moore ? ” 
Their looks met, both without a spark beyond the 
obvious, but of the two, Kamensky only knew what 
the other was thinking. “ Yes, to-day,” he said. 
“ I went to say good-bye to her.” 

“ How was she ? ” 

“ WeU— why ? ” 

“ She seemed to have a cold coming on last night.” 

“ Oh, no ! She was as well as ever to-day, looking 
so beautiful, too. I was so glad to find her in. It’s 
so nice of her to stay in waiting for her friends, isn’t 
it ? ” 

“ Yes,” confirmed Lore rather coldly. “ Were 
there many ? ” 

“ Many what ? ” 

“ Many friends.” 

“ No. I was the only lucky one ! I foimd her 
alone, and I left her alone.” 

There was a pause, during which Lore’s vexation 
was visible. Ah ! So she was well, and yet she 
hadn’t come ! Had she no blood in her veins ? His 
had been afire all the afternoon, as he had been waiting 
for her, thrilled by the anticipation of her appearance. 
And then had she not promised ? “ Oh, that infernal 

band ! ” he muttered angrily. “ Everything is getting 
to jar on me terribly here ! ” 

“ Come with me,” said Kamensky half in jest. 


249 


THE PASSEE-BY 

afraid of provoking contrariness out of his friend’s 
irritation by being too positive. “ There’s nothing 
Hke distance to make us put up with things — as there 
is nothing like absence to make us appreciated — unless 
the absence is too long, then we run the risk of being 
forgotten.” 

Lore scanned him for a second, then said : “ You 
are right — as almost always.” 

“ Why almost ? ” and he smiled, conceahng his 
excitement. 

“ What time are you leaving ? ” 

“ Oh ! as far as that goes I can arrange it to your 
convenience.” 

Now Lore’s eyes were sparkling with a mischievous 
excitement. He had warned her. If she didn’t come 
to-day she would never see him. He had warned her, 
and now she would feel what it would be like to be 
plunged back into the stagnant Hfe from which he had 
drawn her. That would make her more reasonable 
by the time he came back. 

They spoke of trains eagerly, both controlling their 
emotions, but of the two. Lore it was who tried in vain 
to conceal his. They settled to leave together the 
next day. Lore convinced that the prompter the action 
following his warning the better. He ordered another 
bottle. They drank to each other’s luck, then they 
spoke of women. Lore told of how once he had been 
attracted to a woman because she looked the image 
of another one whom he knew very well, but to whom 
he had never dreamed of making love. “ Well, the 
affair I had with this woman, who looked like the other 
one, had a strange fascination of its own, which I never 
experienced since. Can you explain why? And, 


250 


THE PASSEE-BY 


mind you, the first one, whom I had never dreamed of 
making love to, acquired also a strange charm because 
of her likeness to the second one. Isn’t it odd ? How 
do you explain it ? ” 

“ I don’t — but I understand it. Yes, it must have 
been strange ! And the first woman to whom you 
never dreamed of making love acquired a strange 
charm because she looked Hke the other one, who 
attracted you, because she looked hke her, and so on.” 

“ Exactly ! ” 

They both laughed. 

“ I wonder . . mused Kamensky, suddenly pos- 
sessed by an idea that gleamed sardonic in his mirth. 

“ What ? ” 

“ Well, I wonder whether a woman could be affected 
in the same way, by the same conditions.” 

“ How ? To love a man because he looked hke 
another one ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I beheve so,” said Lore, hesitating, yet evidently 
wishing to say more. 

“ You do ? Why ? ” 

“ WeU . . .” His eyes were corruscating with 
mischief. He could not resist reviving the sensations 
of this affair by telhng it. “ You see, in the end I told 
her — the second one — how she had attracted me. I 
did it, I dare say, on a perverse impulse, just to sound 
a new chord, perhaps a unique one.” 

“ I should say it was ! ” 

“ You do see it that way, too ? ” chuckled Lore. 

“ Yes — knowing you. And how did she take it ? ” 

“ No, let me teU you the rest first. You see, it so 
happened that they met, and became friends. As they 


251 


THE PASSEE-BY 

rather admired each other they did not mind being 
told that they looked hke each other. So, in teUing 
her how I had come to fall in love with her I saw the 
risk of making her disHke the other one, since it was 
not for herself, but for her likeness to the other one 
that I had come to love her.” 

“ And she ? ” 

“ Let me tell you. It was a very complicated 
affair. Now when I told her that, she didn’t mind it, 
but she didn’t relish it either. So I gave one more 
turn to the screw, and told her that I had come to 
admire her so much that now the other one had ac- 
quired a charm I had never seen before, owing to their 
hkeness.” 

“ Yes — very compHcated,” said Kamensky, “ and 
how did she take that ? ” 

“ Splendidly ! She understood — I mean, from an 
echo, from a copy, she saw herself become the original.” 

“ And ideally allowed you to admire also her echo — 
and that was what pleased you ? By Jove, you may 
well call it the sounding of new chords ! ” 

“ Honi soil qui mal y pense I ” 

“ Of course ! But why did you say that a woman 
could come to love a man under the same conditions — 
I mean because he looked hke another one ? Did you 
ask her that, too ? ” 

“ I did — ^that kind of psychological research used 
to interest us both — and as there was no one in sight 
that looked hke me, I didn’t mind asking her. She 
admitted that such a situation had even a strange 
attraction. So there you are.” 

“ Yes, I can see it, of course. There’s a puzzle and 
a continuously latent surprise. Each of them would 


252 


THE PASSEK-BY 

be sufficient to keep a woman’s interest — as well as a 
man’s — ^up in arms. I see, yes, quite,” said Kamensky, 
following the idea that had possessed him. “ A man 
or a woman who can be a puzzle, and hold continuously 
latent a surprise will always be irresistible.” 

“ That’s what I think.” 

“ But have you thought of how one could carry the 
situation in which you found such a strange charm 
to its supreme subtlety ? ” 

“ How ? ” 

“ Well, suppose you could alter yourself just enough 
to become a likeness to yourself. Wouldn’t that be 
strange ? ” 

“ Wonderful ! But impossible. . . Then he 
laughed. “ What a joke ! ” 

Kamensky looked at him for a while. “ Why a 
joke ? ” In his friend’s manly, good-looking features, 
he suddenly saw a poor human mask that he felt the 
power to mould as he Hked. He had never been as 
keyed up, he had never looked through his friend as he 
did now. At last he said : “ Ah ! Nothing ought 
ever to be too subtle in your game ! ” 


XX 


A fter a restless night she awoke with the sore 
- impression of having been tossed by disquieting 
events. Then it came back to her, how she had found 
it impossible to go to Lore’s rooms after Kamensky 
had left her the day before. How the obsession 
against which she had been vainly struggling, until 
then, had then vanished. She had remained a long 
time absorbed in meditation, obhvious of everything 
save the lessened image of Lore, and that of Kamensky 
compellingly vivid as she had last seen him, hfted to a 
hitherto unsuspected ardour, that glowed in his eyes, 
in his voice, in the very silence of the room, after he 
had gone. And now, as yesterday, out of it all came 
drifting a vague sense of impending calamity. She 
wished to escape it by not thinking about it, but she 
could not avoid the meditation out of which it came 
drifting, for her meditation did not consist in thought, 
unflinchingly held in one given direction, it consisted 
in thoughts that came and went without strict co- 
herence, associated with images that loomed up and 
vanished. 

Twist and turn as she might, the world had looked 
different since yesterday, since that shifting of scenes 
in which a whole new setting had been rising in the 
place of the old setting tumbhng away on every side. 
Kamensky had suddenly become some one other than 
253 


254 


THE PASSEE-BY 


he who had been famihar to her. The change was as 
bewildering as that of a knight-errant springing un- 
expectedly out of a priest’s cassock. It was bewilder- 
ingly so, and in his change he seemed to draw with 
him her world; Lore, too. Lore also changed, shorn 
somehow of all his glamour. Somehow the two were 
indissolubly connected, connected in the atmosphere 
of understanding with which they had surrounded her. 
Now that Kamensky was gone she reahzed this clearly. 
He had been like Lore’s satelHte until yesterday — 
then unexpectedly he had shone with his own light, 
how brightly, how disconcertingly. . . . 

When she had had pleasant subjects to dwell upon, 
she had always liked to bask in the creamy comfort of 
her bed, while her imagination took her in its aerial 
flight through endless meanderings. Her imagination 
had then a fluency of evocative power that subsided 
the moment that she got up. But this morning it 
converted the creamy comfort of her bed into an un- 
bearable smothering sensation. She flung back the 
silk counterpane, sat up, and rang for her maid. 

She felt that a cold bath, her breakfast, and getting 
up would give a different turn to her mood, and 
restore it to a more normal balance. 

But on facing her cold bath she shivered at that 
other cold that came wafted to her from a void which 
she felt deepening round her. And through her 
breakfast, for which she had no appetite, and then while 
dressing, her inner restlessness persisted, hemming her 
in closer and closer toward the urgency of some action. 
But what action ? Really ! she must take herself 
in hand. 

She remembered that day, that day at the end of 


THE PASSEE-BY 


255 


which she had met Lore. Long ago, it seemed, and 
yet but yesterday. She had felt like this then, only 
not so badly. It seemed to her now that her pre- 
monitions had been propitious then, that she had 
hoped in spite of everything, whereas now somehow 
a menacing vagueness crept all around her, ripphng 
in shivers through what was more sensitive than her 
flesh. And in spite of all her exertions to cling to it, 
hope had deserted her. 

It was on her feehngs that her thoughts groped, 
and her feelings were too confused, and yielded but a 
slow enhghtenment. What positive reason had she 
for giving way to so dark and anxious a mood ? 
Lore had said that if she didn’t come yesterday she 
would never see him again. But he couldn’t really 
mean such a thing. He couldn’t leave New York 
without giving her another warning, it would be too 
wicked and brutal. 

Absent-mindedly she rested her curling-iron on the 
spirit-lamp, and in the depth of the mirror, beyond 
her own face, which she scarcely noticed, she saw Lore 
as he had been the night before last, more persuasive 
than he had ever been until then, overpowering 
her into the renunciation of what had been until 
then the redemption of their love, conquering her 
instinctive scruples and all the resistance that had 
been left in her . . . and yesterday, conquered by 
the spell that he had cast upon her, she was going 
to him to surrender herself if Kamensky had not 
turned up. 

Now it was as if Kamensky had spread a great light, 
in which her enthralment to Lore and Lore himseK 
were shown divested of all the glamour*, of all the 


256 


THE PASSEE-BY 

dignity, however fictitious, that had overpowered her 
the night before last. Now in the disintegration of all 
that had come to make her hfe, she needed one or the 
other of them more than she had ever needed them 
before, she must have something to cHng to in the 
vague tide of distress that was rising slowly but in- 
exorably round her, yet she could not discover which 
of the two she needed the more. She picked up her 
curling-iron, twisted a curl round it, and held it a long 
time, while her eyes stayed fixed in the depths of the 
mirror. 

Could she have chosen she would not have known 
how to choose. One had insinuated himself gradually 
within the throbbing meshes of her being. Unworthy 
or not, he had become like an insidious drug that she 
could not do without, that she could not give up. . . . 
The other — ^in whom she had felt hke confiding at once, 
the very first time that she had met him, whose tender 
comprehension she had felt unfading — had unveiled 
suddenly so delicate, so ideal a worship, so complete a 
power of love that she could not but be dazzled by it. 
It was his whole life that he was offering her. He did 
not ask, he only gave. The passing hour of bliss that 
she had been seduced into granting to the first, and 
by which it was all of herself and for ever that she 
gave, seemed paltry, sordid, compared with the gran- 
deur of a devotion that the other offered without 
conditions. Oh ! If she could only have seen more 
of him now. If she had only asked him to wait . . . 
to help her. To him she was not only a woman whom 
he loved, she was a child, too, with all its weaknesses. 
He would have understood it ! He would only have 
cherished her the more for it. . . . 


THE PASSEE-BY 257 

Her hands rested the iron on the spirit-lamp — they 
picked it up again, they twisted one curl after the other 
round it with the correct regularity of habit, taking 
hints in their work from her eyes fixed in the mirror. 
Her eyes followed, directed the deft activity of her 
hand, while through them she thought that she saw 
herself kissing the dried flower that he offered her, 
kneehng. 

And now, from her very longing for the lover who 
had insinuated himself within the throbbing meshes 
of her being, there sprang up an impulse of rebellion 
against his exaction. She saw his selfishness. . . . 
How had she never seen it before ? How had she 
failed to see it through his evasiveness when she asked 
for all, ready herself to give all ? . . . The insidious- 
ness of his progress in her sentiment, then in her very 
flesh was now apparent. He hungered after her. 
And when his hunger should be appeased ? . . . Then, 
perhaps, a conjugal, practical mood might follow. . . . 
And yet she still throbbed at the evocation of that 
moment when his voice had whispered his passion in 
her ears, when his lips had glided over her neck, then 
over her lips, then had taken possession of her through 
her bps. . . . 

That moment and its emotions she could not easily 
dismiss. Now that they held her again they seemed 
to eat their way through her flesh once more. If it 
was evil, it was hke a disease, of v/hich the germ 
coursed through her blood. She knew it, she rebelled 
against it, but to know it, and to wish not to be 
affected by it did not help her ! . . . 

IfJ^he had only had the complete comprehension 
that the other one had ! The infinite tenderness, 

R 


258 


THE PASSEE-BY 


the ideal power of love that found life in giving instead 
of hungering for what would appease it. , . . 

Comprehension drew confidence, tenderness drew 
tenderness, and that power of love which found its 
hfe in giving would have drawn from her the gift 
of herself that she contested now, to the hunger 
for it. 

One man, then the other, were present to her in turn, 
after she had finished doing her hair, after she was 
dressed ready to go out hoping to find in the casual 
inspiration, fostered by some accidental exteriority, 
the solution of a question about which her mind 
seemed to give way. She needed one or the other, 
so that to be without either made her feel fike gasping 
for air. She caught herself sighing and sighing, like 
one described as being in love. But she? Was she 
in love ? Could one be in love, not knowing who 
with ? 

Her throat contracted in a nervous laugh, more 
painful than a sob. 

Outside, as she went down Fifth Avenue, she drew 
a deep breath as of deliverance from the harassing 
persecution of her thoughts. On her right, the en- 
hvened green of the park caught her attention. 
Through the trees still wintry, looking black and wiry, 
she saw streams of people far off, also black on the 
grey paths. They crawled like sordid insects lured 
out of stones and dust to breathe the balmy air, to 
gaze at the enhvened green that held a promise of 
spring, enjoying the promise that a bhzzard to-morrow 
could annul. 

It was the end of February ; barely two months before 
she had felt as now, the approaching spring in the 


THE PASSER-BY 


259 


imminent defection of all the people that she knew 
already leaving for abroad or planning their trips. 
And then during that hazy, unseasonable day, the 
renewal of the earth had seemed ironical, Hke a grin 
at one more revolution of time bringing her nearer to 
the limit where hope would cease to exist. She had 
passed in review the emptiness of the years gone, 
and had looked forward to another stretch of empti- 
ness in which she was to bend herself to the exigencies 
of her conjugal life, of her social life, both of which 
required of her what was the least like herself — she 
had glanced into a future in which she had seen her- 
self being suppressed, smothered slowly, slowly, 
stirred by revolt, paralysed by inertia. . . . 

It had been one of those days that remain impressed 
in one’s memory. It had brought out at a stroke the 
total of weariness which she had been accumulating 
in an unconscious progression. And yet it seemed 
to her now that her disposition that day had not 
been devoid of consolation. Elizabeth’s telegram 
had amused her. Strange ! Strange the prescience 
which had shaken her as she had read it, “ Lore 
with love ! ” How strange. Then she had gone 
to Mrs. Berilles to see a Patagonian dancer, had 
played bridge, had forgotten that awful morning of 
weariness which had so depressed her. Then Lore 
had appeared. . . . 

And now. . . . 

At this interrogation the sense of impending calamity 
that she had felt drifting toward her, closed in around 
her. 

No ! No ! She must take herself in hand ! He 
was still here ! Kamensky only was leaving. He 


260 


THE PASSEE-BY 


left a tremendous gap, greater than she had ever 
realized that he could leave. But still, Silvian 
she would see again, and in him she would still 
feel Kamensky’s presence through that strange 
puzzling likeness which he had so often felt between 
them. 

Then in the struggle to escape that vague tide of 
distress, she recalled the words by which he had first 
won her : “ There is a worship that is complete in 
itself, that doesn’t ask for an3rthing, that you can 
allow without fear, that raises and holds me up to the 
best that’s in me. You can’t be offended by my 
telhng you this. . . 

These words, in the beginning, had often come back 
eSifying her in her doubts, dissipating her scruples. 
She had hked to repeat them to herself, to find a rest 
in them, a warmth in the comprehension which 
he showed. Had he not also said that he saw her 
loveliness crowning her beauty like a diadem ? 
Hadn’t he understood her ? As a poet could under- 
stand ? 

As she forced herself into the evocation of the time 
when these words had first disclosed a magic light in 
which she had felt as though reborn, it spread floating 
once more before her, but so dimmed that it failed to 
eclipse the successive phases to which it had led her, 
up to the present when all magic had vanished, re- 
placed by the craving of her flesh for him who was no 
more what he had been then. 

Now it was Kamensky who had suddenly dazed her 
by shining with that same light, only more ardent, as 
if its real source had been in him — and Kamensky was 
leaving. . . . 


261 


THE PASSEE-BY 

She had to stop, as a cross-town car swept by ; then 
her eyes strayed to a golden general on a golden horse, 
led by a golden angel, all bent on going down town, 
as she was. What for ? With all her restlessness 
arising out of the sense of urgency for some action, she 
was not getting any further than they on their pedestal. 
But what was she to do ? . . . 

Thus she argued with herself until she met a woman 
friend, with whom she lunched at Sherry’s, and went 
to a matinee performance of the “ Meistersinger,” from 
which she emerged feehng more balanced. As she 
drove home, she reahzed to what extent such exterior 
objects as she had let herself drift into noticing had 
ended by distracting her attention sanely, and hjr 
reheving her mind. There was but a subdued lA- 
rest when she re-entered her drawing-room, where 
the footman handed her a letter that had just been 
brought by messenger. The address was in Lore’s 
handwriting, then all became blurred and chaotic 
again. With twitching fingers she tore it open, and 
read : 

“ Chi^re Amib, 

“ Will you be surprised to know that I am leaving 
now for San Francisco with Kamensky ? It is beyond 
my power of resignation to live here where you live 
without being able to see you — and I cannot hope 
again, after my vain expectation of yesterday. You 
will never know what those interminable hours meant 
to me — ^if you did, you could not have inflicted them 
upon yourself as well as upon me. I shall be away 
until I succeed in feeling nothing more than the devo- 
tion of friendship for you ; then we shall be happy to 


262 


THE PASSEE-BY 


meet in the way that you wish, but which is beyond 
me now — ^that is if then you still wish to see 
“ Yours ever sincerely, 

“SiLviAN Lore.” 

She stood stone still, her eyes fixed on the crisp 
paper that she held in her hand, while she felt as if 
she were dashing herself madly in every direction to 
escape the panic creeping out of the void. 


XXI 


F ive days later she received another letter ; it 
was registered, and the sight of it set her heart 
leaping. 

“My Dearest, 

“ So far I find that distance only increases the 
madness I am trying to fight. You are more present 
to me now than during those terrible hours that 
I spent in waiting for you — when at every minute I 
fancied that only a door which I could open stood 
between us. Now, not the swiftest flight of the train 
which is taking me further and further from you can 
free me from the torment of your presence, neither 
can my reason help me. I may well try to think of 
you as of the tenderest friend, I might well try to 
appeal to the tenderest affection that I can find in my 
heart, but barely stirred, it is set on fire, and my 
reason burns with that burning. This I had to tell 
you, I can’t help teUing you — men are no doubt made 
differently from women. It isn’t their fault, is it ? 
But I think it fair that you should know what one 
suffers from the way one is made, so that I may get 
some credit should I succeed in suppressing the 
difference between us which prevents us from under- 
standing each other, and has led to our estrangement. 
263 


264 


THE PASSEE-BY 

Shall I succeed ? Do at least send me a line of en- 
couragement — a line by which you may help me to 
see you as you wish me to see you — by which you may 
exorcise the image that haunts me now, that has 
haunted me ever since that night, when I felt you 
quivering in my arms. When I tasted the savour of 
your beauty on your neck, on your very lips, and then 
. . . Oh ! they were the kisses blossomed into flowers 
that had drawn me to you how long ago ? . . . and 
the flowers under my lips disclosed at last their petals, 
and from the disclosed petals I drank their life and the 
philtre of my madness. Help me . . . help me . . . 
my dearest . . . for, alone I cannot find the strength 
to come to you, as the friend you wish me to be. 
... I cannot find the strength to cease being your 
adoring 

“ SiLVIAN.” 

“ Ah ! Men are not made so differently from 
women as he seems to think,” she reflected, after 
having read his letter several times, while relaxing 
in the immense happiness that it brought her. The 
turn of the tide found her at such a low ebb, had come 
so totally unexpected, so all unhoped-for, that hour 
after hour, during the whole day, it welled and welled 
up, before finding its steady level. 

The almost hard conciseness of his first letter was 
now explained. She had thought that he had ceased 
loving her, and that he was angry with her. And then, 
there had been another thing which had harassed her 
to distraction, to the point of wondering whether she 
were losing her mind, and that was the bewildering 
confusion between Lore’s and Kamensky’s identities, 


265 


THE PASSER-BY 

a confusion from which she had been unable to recover, 
after the stunning blow received with his first letter. 
Their simultaneous departure, confirming the ominous 
presentiments which had haunted her all that day, 
had also mixed up inextricably their personahties, 
emphasizing in all its revolting clearness the fact that 
she did not know who she was in love with. And then, 
and then . . . still worse than that, the thought of 
Lore shrunk to a servile reflection of his friend. Yet 
despite this, in the rare and short glimpses that she 
could evoke of him, disentangled from the other one, 
he had held her, but in what a humiliation — ^the longing 
for him reduced to a mere shadow of what he had been 
to her. 

Now all was explained ! . . . She understood be- 
cause . . . because women were not so different from 
men as he thought. She burned now with the same 
fever that burned him. But how happy ! How 
happy it made her to burn that way ! 

Within her own room, with her door locked, she sat 
down to her writing desk. She, too, began with “ My 
dearest.” Then in one breath went on. “ I under- 
stand everything, because women are not so different 
from men as you think, save in their shyness. . . . 
Haven’t you learned to make allowance for it ? Oh ! 
I blush now as I make this confession, but I make 
it as an expiation for the suffering I have in- 
voluntarily dealt to you and ... to myself. Yes ! 
Yes ! There ! Have I atoned for my wickedness ? 
Have I ” 

Here she stopped, pondering as to whether it were 
wise to express in progression all the feehngs that 
stirred her in the act of this communication. After 


266 


THE PASSER-BY 

all, if he assumed that he felt more than she did, 
wasn’t it wiser to let him value the privilege of his 
initiative ? And the value of her yielding to it ? She 
would always be in time to accentuate her conces- 
sions. . . . 

She read what she had written, started to tear it, 
then put it aside. Part of it might be used, and she 
took another sheet. By the way, what was his ad- 
dress ? Then, to her intense dismay, she discovered 
that he had neglected to write it. Poor dear, he had 
lost his head indeed ! But how dreadful ! She was 
stung by disappointment. It seemed impossible that 
she should have to wait to answer his appeal until she 
received another letter. 

She turned this one about, examining it on every 
side. No address, no date. Would he reahze that 
it wasn’t her fault, if she did not answer ? Such an 
answer as she wished to send him could not be trusted 
to the chance of missing him by being sent to an hotel 
where he would be likely to stop. It was dreadful ! 
But what ! What could she do ? 

Then she read his again, and thought of the danger 
of keeping it. “ This is one of those letters that are 
apt to disappear and get people into trouble,” she 
thought. But how could she destroy it ? She shpped 
it under her blouse, thinking that when she knew it by 
heart then she would burn it. . . . “ If it doesn’t do 
it by spontaneous combustion,” she commented, 
smiling in her happiness. 

But she did not destroy it the following day, nor 
the day after that, nor even after eight days, when she 
received another one, which she took to her room to 
read in absolute seclusion. 


267 


THE PASSEE-BY 

“Palace Hotel, 

“ San Francisco. 

“ Oh, My Dearest, 

‘ ‘ What a terrible disappointment ! We have j ust 
arrived, and not a word from you. I try to find some 
consolation in the hope that I did not give you my 
address in my last note. I was in such a state of mind 
when I wrote it, that I am afraid of what I may have 
said in it. I doubt whether I had sense enough left 
to give you my address — and yet ... I am no better 
now — do send me a word to calm my anxiety and my — 
but why should I repeat what haunts me, what can 
only be offensive to you ? No, I must stop — and until 
I hear from you I’ll try not to write again — I do it 
now to give you my address in the hope I didn’t do 
it before — in the hope of receiving a word from you 
that will at least fortify me in my effort to become 
nothing but your 

“ Ever devoted friend, 

“ SiLviAN Lore.” 

She could not satisfy herself enough with reading 
it. Suddenly she took a telegraph form, and rapidly 
pencilled : 

“ Am writing — could not do it before, having got 
only now your address.” She did not sign it. Then 
she hesitated between beginning on the letter at once, 
and going out to send the telegram. She felt equally 
drawn both ways, until she thought of his suspense. 
Then there was no doubt about it. She must send 
the telegram at once. In a twinkle she had on her 
hat, her veil, her coat, and was out of the house. 
Stopping the first cab in sight, she drove to the nearest 


268 THE PASSEE-BY 

telegraph station ; twenty minutes later she was 
back. 

Now only did she take notice of the other letters 
that had arrived with Lore’s, of one especially, in an 
unfamiliar, yet not unknown hand. At a second 
glance she saw that it came from San Francisco. . . . 
Kamensky ? And she shrank from opening it. She 
felt as if he could only hurt her by shattering the httle 
that she had left ... by appeahng to her “ better 
self,” as they put it in fiction. He had done it once 
already, and now — she knew it was dreadful — but 
she could not five up to his ideal. His last visit re- 
curred to her mind — ^yes, it was beautiful, but he was 
not coming back, he left her to herself, he could no 
more sustain her . . . and yet, she could not leave it 
unopened. She would just look it over. The sight 
of three large, thin sheets of paper densely written 
gave her a start of apprehension. 

“Dear Mrs. Moore, 

“ I will sail in a few days, but before being divided 
from you by more space, I must recall myself to you. 
Now, when I am on the sea I will know that these 
words will reach you and that then there will come 
the moment when you will think of me. But I must 
be frank. I must confess my belief that you will 
think of me for more than one moment. It is im- 
possible that all of what ascends from me to you 
should be dispersed in space. You know my behef 
in the value of our thoughts, of our most secret aspira- 
tions.” 

She raised her eyes from the letter because it jarred 
shghtly on her. She had heard all this before, had 


269 


THE PASSEE-BY 

valued it at the time, but she rather wished to 
forget it now. It was all very high and noble, but 
now, while she did not admit it even to herself, she 
found it a little tiresome. She had better get through 
and have done with it, however, after which she would 
burn it, and think no more about it. So she lowered 
her eyes and went on : 

“ It is through my aspirations that I shall never be 
completely out of your memory. I feel as if you will 
think of me in those moments of solitude that come 
to us all, because I think that there is no mood of yours 
that I haven’t imagined. You are present to me now, 
as you have always been since I have met you, and 
how shall I express the heaviness of my heart at the 
thought of your loneliness during these past days ? ” 

Here she reflected an instant on the strangeness of 
his words coinciding with what was true. Had he 
guessed ? Had Lore betrayed himself ? It was in a 
vague anxiety that she read on : 

“ I am afraid I guess more, I know more about you 
than the discretion which is imposed upon me allows 
me to say,” 

“That’s rather in bad taste,” she commented in- 
wardly. 

“ that is why I know also how you can accept the 
suffering which tears from us, one after the other, the 
veils that bhnd us to what we really are, and to the 
worlds in which we move progressively.” 

What did he mean ? She wished that she had torn 
the letter without reading it. But now she simply 
had to read to the end. 

“ Although I could not explain this to myself when 
I first saw you, I felt it in you, even then. It was this 


270 THE PASSEE-BY 

feeling which held me in a dumb suspense while your 
visible beauty stirred a surge of wild emotion in me. 
The divine which shone in your eyes mingled too dis- 
concertingly with what I saw on yoiu* lips. They 
seemed to me like kisses blossomed into flowers.” 

At this she stopped, giddy under the shock that sent 
flame after flame to her face. She could not read that 
over again, although she felt as if it could not possibly 
have been there. She went on, impelled by a force 
tearing her inwardly, where life seemed most sensitive. 

“ And the scarlet flowers of passion induced a state 
of madness in me for which what I have suffered would 
not be a sufficient expiation without this confession. 
I remember one day your telling me how admirably 
strong I must be, and how my being strong helped 
you to believe in the things I said and in yourseK. I 
was then so overcome by your words that I could find 
none myself in reply. Had I been less affected I might 
have told you that all my strength I had derived from 
you. Everything I told you that day had lain fallow 
in me, almost forgotten, until it was called to fight and 
to fife by the fight and the fife I saw and felt in you. 
It all began that other day, when I had been placed 
next to you at lunch. Something you said, a veiled 
confidence, made me see what I had only confusedly 
felt until then. I’ve never had a sister, I’ve never had 
a child, but I don’t think that I could cherish either 
with a deeper, a more intense tenderness than that 
which has moved me for you since that day. Do you 
understand ? Something almost distressing at one’s 
inability to do all that one wishes for the one one 
really loves. You are the only woman who has made 
me understand love that way. I forgot the beautiful 


THE PASSER-BY 271 

follies of love in my anxiety to come nearer to you 
yourself. I know, my dear, dear friend, that the magic 
pulsation of music, colour, and perfume, fused and 
sublimated up to the perception of the divine, such 
as it is granted to the flesh to feel, cannot be evoked 
by wishing or by willing. Oh ! I know it ! I know 
that it was not in me to create it in you. And yet, 
such is the way in which I love you, that even that 
magic happiness would I have given you had it been 
in my power to give it to you through somebody else. 
Since it was not in me to create it in you, you do 
believe me — don’t you ? I write to you now in the 
same attitude of spirit in which I was when I spoke 
to you last, in which I shall always be when think- 
ing of you, kneeling very close to you. And when 
one speaks that way, one reaches as near to truth as 
it is possible for us to reach. You do believe me, 
don’t you ? But what are words ! A small love is 
sooner expressed than a great one. Even now that 
I dare to speak to you as I did not think I could again, 
even now that distance reconciles my reverence with 
the grace of a beauty which when I was near you 
paralysed me ; even now, I find in words but poor 
instruments of expression and of persuasion. Is it 
to be wondered at that I could not come near you 
without being moved by what I felt a right to through 
my devotion, hoping that through my devotion I 
might have been of service to you ? There are 
moments of loneliness in which any living thing that 
loves can bring some comfort. I tried to come near 
you merely as a living thing that loves. But even 
then I saw your loneliness like a diadem of sadness 
crowning your beauty, and I was like a living thing 


272 


THE PASSEE-BY 

that loves, but is dumb. And then ? Stupidly, 
perhaps, I had to speak of you to the only person I 
could speak to of you, to Lore. But I don’t think 
that even he ever suspected what no one shall ever 
know except yourself, in the same way that, except 
myself, no one will ever know the power into which 
you have initiated me — ^perhaps the greatest — the 
power of acquiescence in the highest trials, lifting us, 
when accepted, upward and upward. This you have 
given me, and for this I shall be yours all for ever and 
ever. 

“ Serge Kamensky.” 

As she finished, she saw everything very clearly, 
as one sees from a great height. She found herself 
changed, pervaded by the same fight, the glow of 
which had endured in the room the last day that she 
had seen him, even after he had gone. Something 
like the atmosphere of a dream went vibrating through 
her ethereally, transposing all her senses to a higher 
key, ineffably delicate, ineffably sad. It revived for 
an instant the wistfulness, heavy with obscure yearn- 
ings, felt when she was a young girl, as she roamed 
of a grey autumn evening through the garden from 
which all the luxuriance of summer had vanished, 
save for a faint echo of dimmed colours, soon to dis- 
appear with the last chrysanthemums along the 
solitary jath. 


XXII 



ES, she was changed, and each day after the other 


i brought out the change in clearer and clearer dis- 
tinction. She was no more of the crowd now, as she 
had entered the sohtary path, along the edge of which 
a faint echo of vanished summer floated still in dimmed 
colours soon to disappear. Then the winter would 
come, the winter of hfe that has no spring. And it 
was also as if the winter were going to overtake her 
where the path ascended to a very high place of 
superb bleakness. From there she would see the 
senseless riot of the crowd down below in the warm 
sun, and the warm sun would not tempt her. 

How removed everything was getting from her — 
everything ! ... It was as if she saw the whole 
world through the wrong end of an opera-glass, with 
the nearest faces out of focus. Fred, who appeared 
and disappeared meaninglessly, her friends. Lore’s 
passion. They all spoke a language in which she had 
ceased to find more meaning than in the mute antennal 
confabulations of ants, as she had often seen them 
meeting on tree-trunks -or on the window-sill. Even 
herself she found moving and speaking absently with 
the sheer momentum ot habit. And even as she spoke 
she was struck by the sound of her voice, as if it did 
not belong to her. 

s 273 


274 


THE PASSER-BY 


The days with their tide of alien life rose and sank 
about her, leaving her unstirred, until a telegram 
came, and then as she read it she realized that she 
had foreseen its coming. It was from Lore : 

“ Nothing received since wire I am dreadfully anxious 
What must I think ? ” 

It was prudently unsigned. 

It had often occurred to her that she might write, 
but on thinking over it she had found that there was 
nothing that she could say, the more so after reading 
his letters with the intention of finding in them a 
motive for answering. In reading them she had 
gauged with bitter wonderment their paltriness — 
and hers — of but a few days before ; then she had 
burned them, as if with them she were burning every- 
thing that had been imphed by them. But now she 
understood that there were things that fire could not 
destroy. 

She it was who had to wipe out with her 
own hands, with her own thought, what she had 
shaped. She must write to him, if for nothing else, 
to prevent his writing and telegraphing to her. And 
still she could not bring herself to do it until she got 
another telegram, more pressing, more distressed 
than the first. 

She felt no hostihty against him, only no desire to 
see or hear of him again. She would not have hurt 
him, yet how could she explain without hurting him 
why she did not wish to see him again ? She made 
various attempts in this direction without any result, 
when two days after the second telegram she got a 
third letter from him. 


THE PASSER-BY 


275 


“ My dearest Friend, 

“ Do you appreciate my attempt at repressing 
what I regret more and more in my previous letters ? 
When shall I get one from you, if only to bring me your 
forgiveness for my madness, and tell me that I can see 
you again ? Kamensky has just left, I am just back 
from seeing him off on his steamer, and I feel very 
desolate after all these days spent with him in talking 
of you. It is so rare to find a man who can under- 
stand women, and he is one of them, strange as it may 
seem. He understands you enough to appreciate in 
you what I adore. Now that he has gone I feel some- 
how as if the last hnk between you and me had gone 
too. It may be something hke a superstition, hke a 
presentiment, I don’t know what, for I have never 
felt this way before. But it is unbearable, and I feel 
more than ever the vital necessity of a word from you, 
whatever it may be. Oh, do, for God’s sake ! send it 
to your most devoted friend, 

“ SiLVIAN.” 

There was something like a cry in this letter which 
rang sincere to her because it struck very close to a 
very sensitive chord in her. She saw now why she 
had felt no hostility against him. It was because 
if he had been Kamensky’s reflection, he had been so 
perhaps unconsciously, attracted by the personaHty 
that had been so long veiled to her, and by this only 
now redeemed from what of his own personaHty he 
had added to the unconsciously borrowed one. The 
guileless admission of the cause of his desolation touched 
her while rousing her sense of humour. “ Now that 
he has gone I feel as if the last Hnk between you and 


276 


THE PASSEE-BY 


me had gone. . . No, poor shadow ! That was 
no superstition. . . . But in reading over again 
this sentence, and some that preceded it, a strange 
sensation came floating over her, it was an obscure 
desire for something that could be no more, and yet of 
which he was still a faint reflection. The sensation 
grew until it pervaded her, sharpened into a desire 
that was no more obscure — the desire to see him, to 
have through him the last emanation of what had gone. 
Then, at last, she wrote : 

“ My dear Friend, 

“ I could not answer your two first letters, but 
after reading your last, I feel that I cannot delay 
any longer offering you an explanation. When you 
return to New York please let me know when you 
will call, so that I may not miss you by being out. 

“ Yours ever sincerely, 

“Angela Moore.” 

This she wrote without difficulty or hesitation, 
but once written, she laboured to soften it. Yet after 
many attempts she had to send it as it was, and as she 
thought about it, after it had gone, she felt more and 
more that she had struck the right note. There was 
only one thing about it that worried her ; she did not 
wish to receive him without telling Fred, for she 
wished no concealment about this meeting. Yet, on 
the other hand, she did not want to enter into any 
explanation with Fred. This worry, however, she 
dismissed easily, for there was plenty of tipe to decide. 
She still thought so after a telegram in which he 
announced the receipt of her last letter, and his 
immediate departure. Then she had a margin left of 


THE PASSEE-BY 277 

five days. But day after day, she found it impossible 
to convey her announcement verbally, with a remote- 
ness corresponding to the remoteness in which Fred 
appeared to her through the wrong end of the opera- 
glass, until one morning a note, by messenger, brought 
her the news that he would call that afternoon at six 
o’clock unless he heard to the contrary. 

Then she renounced telling Fred, deciding to answer 
him as she saw fit should he question her about it 
afterwards. Although she had been expecting this 
visit, it took her now by surprise, with a strange 
agitation. Out of the remoteness of all the hfe sur- 
rounding her, she felt suddenly that he was going to 
emerge disconcertingly close to her. This meeting 
was going to be very painful, after all. She had not 
reahzed this when she had been thinking of it, while 
it was still distant. She had not reahzed what it 
would be to hear his voice, to see him actually. He 
too, with his passion, had been remote, but now she 
could see the exact expression of his eyes, the look of 
pain that would come into them, that look that had so 
often gone straight to her heart. His love could have 
no more hold on her, she thought, but she could not 
readily disassociate every one of his features from the 
meaning that they had had for her. His very clothes, 
unessential as they were, and the way in which he 
wore them, would have given her a start had she seen 
him anywhere, even at a distance. 

As the d^ wore on, now this, now that, detail of 
his personality stood out sharply before her mental 
vision ; every one came like a Httle stab, and it seemed 
to her that she was thus killing, with stab after stab, 
an image that she had deeply and greatly cherished. 


278 


THE PASSEE-BY 

Life was very cruel, she thought, as she went over the 
events that had so intensely, so bewilderingly crowded 
into the last months of her existence, and now, hour 
after hour, every one of their meetings was gathered 
in her memory. Poor boy ! ... It wasn’t his fault, 
nor hers, nor any one’s, and here they were all suffering 
. . . and everything was shattered. . . . 

She could not keep still, and yet she felt exhausted. 
She read Kamensky’s letter and cried over it. “ And 
yet such is the way in which I love you, that even 
that magic happiness would I have given you had 
it been in my power to give it to you through — 
somebody — else — since it was not in me to create it 
in you.” 

It was ! It was ! Oh ! The pity of it ! The 
abominable sadness of it ! “ Through — somebody — 

else. ...” He said ... he was ready to do even 
that for love of her, and as he knew everything, and 
had made it impossible for her to indulge in her delusion 
about Lore any longer, it was for her sake that he had 
done it — ^to save her !...“! write to you now in the 
same attitude of spirit in which I was when I spoke to 
you last, in which I shall always be when thinking of 
you . . . kneeling very close to you. And when one 
speaks that way, one reaches as near to truth as it is 
possible for us to reach. You do believe me, don’t 
you ? ” She had to brush away new tears. Yes ! 
Yes ! She did beheve him, as she believed in God, 
as she beheved in the power for good to which he had 
brought her back. ... 

She stayed indoors all the afternoon, growing more 
and more exhausted, more and more restless at the 
approaching ordeal which she wished over, and which 


279 


THE PASSEE-BY 

she would not have put off for anything on earth. 
The end of the last hour harassed her to distraction. 
First she thought that she would wait for him in the 
sitting-room; then the heartrending associations that 
faced her as she roamed about the room waiting for him, 
the anxiety of her suspense, as from second to second 
she expected to hear the door-bell ring, the self- 
consciousness of the attitude that she would have to 
put on, drove her out, up to her room, where once more 
she bathed her eyes, smiling rather hysterically at the 
sight of her poor distracted face, sighing, sighing as if 
the sigh might come that would free her from the 
breath of Hfe. 

And then . . . there was the moment when she 
stood stone-still at the sound of the door-bell, when her 
heart seemed to leap, missing its pulsations, at the 
sound of his name, when she went dowstairs and 
rested her hmp hand on the door-knob, turning it 
slowly, feehng herself like a ghost. 

She saw him — and she stood on the threshold, as if 
her legs were being mowed from under her. 

In the middle of the room he stood smiling, rather 
mischievously, and she saw his smile framed by a 
newly grown beard that made of him the most extra- 
ordinary-looking creature. 

As she stared at him, she saw in his manly, good- 
looking features a poor human mask that had been 
moulded by a superior will with the sapient ruthless- 
ness of a savage. As she heard his voice, removed 
from the painful nearness which she had feared, she 
recovered suddenly from her weakness, but it was 
all that she could do not to break into an hysterical 
convulsion of laughter. 


280 


THE PASSEE-BY 

“ Angela ! ” he exclaimed, in a low tone, as he took 
her limp hand to his hps. 

Now composed at the gravity of his voice, she 
settled herself on the sofa. “ You’ll be angry with 
me for letting you come all this way . . . for . . . 
well, you guess.” 

“ I don’t.” 

“ It’s aU over.” 

“ All ! — over ? ” and he fixed her with a stern 
surprise. But the look of pain that she had feared she 
did not see enough of to be affected by it. What 
struck her most about him was his beard. 

“ Yes. . . . One can’t control one’s feelings, not 
the feelings of that sort — can one ? ” 

“ But Angela ! I don’t understand. This is terrible ! 
What has happened ? ” 

“ Everything, and — nothing.” 

“ No ! no ! that won’t do. There must be some- 
thing positive. You must have some reason that you 
must tell me. It’s horrible ! I had a presentiment 
of something wrong, but not of anything hke this ! 
Angela ! For God’s sake tell me. There must be a 
mistake somewhere, a misunderstanding. I have 
been rash, I know, but you don’t know what I went 
through before leaving — and afterwards, ever since 
your silence, and then that letter — so cold, so icy. ...” 
He passed his handkerchief over his forehead, and 
dropped into a chair. 

“ I am sorry ! ” 

“ No — that isn’t enough. You must tell me. I 
might explain. I am sure I can explain anything. 
I am the same that I was. . . .” 

“ Yes . . . yes. . . .” She felt sorry for him. 


281 


THE PASSEE-BY 

“ Then it isn’t I ? ^Vhat is it then ? Why must 
you make me suffer this way ? You don’t know what 
I suffer ! I thought I loved you before, but I didn’t 
know what it was to love before. It has come over 
me since I ceased to see you, and then when I began 
to feel anxious, and then that letter. You’ll never 
know how it hurt me. But I still hoped, I was sure 
of some misunderstanding. ...” 

She kept her eyes lowered on the flounce of a cushion 
that she was fingering, and in mute pain now he was 
looking at her hand, at her dehcately chiselled fingers 
tapering in ghstening, pointed nails. He had never 
seen it so exquisitely cruel. 

“ Can’t you have some pity ? Can’t you tell me out 
of pity ? ” 

It was out of pity that she did not tell him, but this 
she would not tell him either : “ Listen, my friend. 
Let’s avoid pain to both — useless pain — by dropping 
the subject.” 

“ Dropping the subject ! ” he ejaculated. “ Drop- 
ping the subject ! Wonderful ! Mighty easy for you ! 
I see ! But I am not going to ! One doesn’t lead a 
man on the way you led me on to drop-the-svhject 
hke that. It may be very American. You call it a 
flirtation, I suppose. And now you are tired of it . . . 
with me, and you’ll take up some one else.” 

“ Hush ! You ought to be ashamed of yourself for 
saying such vulgar things ! ” 

He saw her face flushed, her eyes sparkHng darkly, 
her hand clutching the cushion, half buried in it with 
a ghtter of diamonds and a ghstening of nails, and 
through it aU a tragic beauty that pierced his heart. 

“ You are right. I’ve been vulgar, but I am crazy.” 


282 


THE PASSEE-BY 


Again he looked at her in dumb pain. There she was, 
the same, and — how changed ! Her beauty was greater 
now than he had ever seen it. Her beauty hurt him 
dreadfully now, and yet it was irresistible as it had 
never been. It bewildered him to find himself caught 
where he had thought that she would be. 

And she, after having fiared out, was composed 
again in the concealment of her painful uneasiness. 
It had turned out to be as bad as she had expected, 
but in a different way from what she had expected. 
She wondered how it would end. It looked distress- 
ingly as if it would never end. How could she have 
seen in him the things she had ? . . . Kamensky — 
Kamensky had made his only reality, and now had 
undone it ruthlessly. 

“ Ko . . . I can’t ! I can’t ! I suffer too much. 
You can’t treat me this way. You’ve got to tell me. 
I’ll cling to you until you tell me. It is impossible ! 
Doesn’t the past count ? The things we said ? The 
things you said ? Think of it ! I implore of you . . . 
that night at the ball . . . you were in my arms . . . 
doesn’t that count ? Is it all wiped out ? Why did 
you let me kiss you then ? What are you made of ? ” 

“ Listen — I let you say these things because I see 
your suffering, and I am sorry for it, dreadfully sorry, 
and in a way I feel that I must atone for it . . . but 
in a measure only. And that’s why I let you say 
these things which hurt me more than you think. 
Please don’t repeat them.” 

“ Why ? Why shall I not repeat them when they 
haunt me, when they have been my daily life since 
then. I’ve lived on what happened that night 
ever since ! God ! I feel as if I were going crazy ! 


283 


THE PASSEE-BY 

But tell me, weren’t you ready to run aw. . . . Weren’t 
you ready to wait for me ? Weren’t we to belong to 
each other ? Weren’t . . 

“ Please ! You are going beyond the measure ! 
Wasn’t I ready to run away with you ? Yes — I was. 
And you were afraid of it. It was more than you 
wanted. It was much too much. For me it was aU or 
nothing. You didn’t want all, so, now it’s nothing. You 
had your choice first. You can’t say I haven’t been 
fair. And now, let’s part. Now I have given you 
the explanation you wanted.” She arose from the 
sofa. 

He started to his feet. “ I beg you ! I implore 
you! One minute longer; we can’t part this way. 
Let me tell you, I was not afraid of anything else 
but of what could hurt you. You know it. If you 
don’t beheve it, put me to the test now. I’ll do any- 
thing you want. I can’t — I can’t do without you ! ” 

“ It is too late.” 

“ But have you got a stone instead of a heart ? 
Are you a panther ? You are cruel ! Oh ! You are 
cruel ! You got tired of me out of fickleness, and now 
you take advantage of a misunderstanding to chuck 
me. That’s the truth of it all. Ah 1 The great love ! 
The wonderful love ! ” He laughed. “ A pose, the 
whole thing ! A pose ! Acting I Acting for an 
invisible gallery, for yourself, for me ! Acting the 
great romance of your fife ! Oh I Don’t I know it ! 
To think of it later with dreamy eyes ! ” He bowed 
curtly and was going. 

“ Stop, please ! You asked me to tell you the truth 
for pity’s sake — and just out of pity I felt that I could 
not teU you the truth. Now I don’t feel any pity. 


284 


THE PASSEE-BY 

I find, as you say, that there is something of the panther 
in me. Do you want the truth ? ” 

He felt suddenly very uneasy at the ominous glow 
of her beauty as she stood there, lissom with the 
suppleness of a fehne ready to spring. But he said, 
“ Yes.” 

“ Well,” she spoke very calmly, with perfectly re- 
strained violence. “ What was the first compliment 
you payed me ? You found that my hps were like 
kisses blossomed into fiowers. Where did you get 
that from ? From Kamensky.” 

He had turned pale, and made a motion as if to 
speak. 

“ Please don’t interrupt. How did you phrase the 
declaration of your love for me ? There is a worship 
that is complete of itself, that doesn’t ask for any- 
thing — and then about the loneliness crowning my 
beauty Hke a diadem — where did you get those things ? 
From Kamensky. And now, can you tell me, please, 
how it ever came into your mind to grow a beard ? 
Kamensky, too, I suppose.” 

From white, he turned crimson to the roots of his 
hair. It was a ghastly moment which, in a rush of 
distress, she repented having provoked. She saw him 
changed, disfigured, opening and shutting his mouth 
again and again, but no sound came out of it. His 
eyes got lustrous, very lustrous, and vacant, like those 
of a witty fish in a nightmare. Then he took himself 
off. 


XXIII 


T hat night, as they were driving home from a 
dinner, she announced to Fred that she was going 
to Virginia the next morning. 

“ For how long ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

Then the silence fell again — the silence that had 
become customary between them. “ The end ! ” he 
thought. 

His self-sufficiency had long deserted him un- 
admitted, concealed by silence, and now he held on 
grimly to the last sparks of fighting spirit that were 
left in him. The battle was lost all round, rapidly 
swept into a rout by defection rife all round him, con- 
fronting him whichever way he turned, down at his 
office, and now — ^in his own home. This he had 
anticipated, closing his eyes to it, hoping with all the 
longing of his confused soul for some mercy somewhere. 
Now, grimly, he smiled to himself, reminiscent of his 
own past aloofness, of the aloofness of all victors over 
the defeat of others. But he would play his game to 
the last. Let those go who wouldn’t stay by him, 
and when all should be over, and nothing left to fight 
with or for, then . . . why, then there was always 
the back door of life open through which to retire 
285 


286 THE PASSEE-BY 

for ever out of all trouble. But die game, by God, that 
he would ! 

His clenched fists relaxed as he asked : “ Want to 
see your people ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

He hesitated. He got on well with them. Had 
they been here they might . . . they might yet have 
saved the domestic situation. “ Can’t you ask your 
people here ? ” 

“ No. I prefer to go and see them.” 

Something in him struggled to get loose, but it 
choked him instead of finding its way out. There 
was a mighty effort, a supreme strain, and then a 
collapse from his inability to express himself. He 
suffered. God! He did suffer! But how to say it, 
how to show it ? The words that came to his lips were 
inadequate, while the mysterious bonds that made 
the oneness of two beings became real now that they 
were wrenched, torn within him. He felt something 
more than understanding, something more than love : 
it was the completion of one by the other, it was that 
which hke air may not be often noticed, but the lack 
of which takes one’s fife away. 

In the dim light of the carriage, with sidelong 
glances he could see her in profile, resting in her corner, 
her cloak closely drawn about her, mute, absent to the 
point of ahenation. He had let things drift on to this 
point so gradually that now it was as if it had been 
mutually and tacitly agreed upon. For some time now 
when he had dined at home she had had her dinner 
carried to her own room — neuralgia — a headache. . . . 
Now in her alienation there was no unevenness, 
nothing that he could have caught hold of. Wasn’t 


287 


THE PASSER-BY 

he looking at her obliquely, because he felt, too, some- 
thing of impropriety in a franker look, the moment 
that he was tempted to broach any subject outside 
of the most conventional ? He was sure that she 
was aware of his glances, and yet, not the slightest 
response ! 

“ What train will you take ? ” He cast out, on the 
chance of striking some unhoped-for point of com- 
munication. 

“ I don’t know. The usual one, I suppose — the 
seven forty-five.” She knew that he was beating about 
the bush, and his inveterate deviousness in getting to 
the point irritated her more than ever. She won- 
dered what he was going to ask next, and how long 
would be the pause before his next question. Then 
she wagered to herself that if timed by the watch, 
his pauses would turn out to be methodically even, 
and she began to count : “ one, two, three. . . .” 

After a while, he cast out again : “ Isn’t it too 
early ? Such an uncomfortable train.” 

She hesitated as to whether it was worth while 
giving him a reasonable answer, then she said : “ It’s 
the only through train. There isn’t another, is 
there ? ” 

And again the silence fell, and was not broken until 
the carriage reached the house. 

She had to go to Virginia because there was not a 
sight or a noise in the house, or in New York, that was 
not unbearable. Lore had had perhaps his only true 
intuition about her when he had discovered that 
there was something of the panther in her. Vicious ? 
Yes! She didn’t care whether she hurt or not — no! 
But she had to be alone with herself in the silence in 


288 


THE PASSEE-BY 

which she would still hear the faint echo of what had 
gone — of what had been hers to take, and was now 
gone. That faint echo was all she had left to live for. 
Sometimes it seemed to her that she could call back 
what she had let slip out of her life — ^then, again, it 
seemed impossible, Hke retaining after awakening the 
magic of some wonderful dream. It was not a thing 
of the earth. But that of it which was like a perfume 
left floating, like a dimmed but constantly ethereal 
glow, hke a faint echo of unearthly music, that she 
would cleave to, live with and for, had she to trample 
on and crush whoever came between her and it. 
From it she evolved a comprehension of it, clearer 
and clearer, that transposed all her senses in a higher 
and higher key, tuning them upward to perceptions 
so ineffably dehcate in their ineffable sadness that to 
live without them would have now been impossible. 
She would not have exchanged this wonderful un- 
happiness for most people’s smug happiness. 

All the way in the train she felt that she was pos- 
sessing herself more and more. She had taken a book 
to read, and once or twice had opened it, but every 
time she got impatient with the descriptions of sunsets 
in the desert — sunsets in the desert were the fashion 
now. This was the third book that described sunsets 
in the desert, and palms, and sirocco. Then, her eyes 
raised from the book and fixed on the rushing land- 
scape, she saw him as he had been that day when he 
had knelt to kiss the hem of her gown. She recalled 
the things that he had said then, and the time before 
that, when he had stayed after tea. She little knew 
then whom she was listening to. That was the dread- 
ful part of it all, not to have seen, not to have known 


289 


THE PASSEE-BY 

until it was late ! But then it was not a thing of 
the earth. It was not to be. Such things never were 
except in the sphere of the rarest phantasy. Yet 
what a wonderful possibihty to dwell upon with her 
phantasy ! He had expressed all her own yearnings, 
which had been until now obscure to herself. His 
love was made of treasures to give, give, give ! What 
else had she yearned for without realizing it ? To 
give, to give, to give to him who would appreciate the 
gift. To give all herseK, all the sumptuousness of her 
loosened hair, all her youth, all her beauty, every 
thought, every beat of her heart, to give it all in a 
superb abandonment more chaste and unashamed 
than innocence. As she harked back to her girlhood, 
this she discovered to be what she had really yearned 
for, disguised by vain mirages ; and when she had 
married, this it was that had been at the core of the 
dazzle out of which she had emerged, deceived ; 
and when she had come to hate herself for the in- 
voluntary show of her attractions, this again it was, 
though wounded now, sick at the waste of the gift; 
and when she had met Lore, this again it was ; and 
when she had met Mm ? . , . 

“ The power of acquiescence . . . the power of 
acquiescence ...” she began whispering to herself 
as she would have whispered a prayer. He was 
giving it to her, as she was giving it to him. Was this 
the most precious of the gifts that they could make 
to each other ? “ The power of acquiescence.” It 

was a great power, if not the greatest, to acquiesce in 
one’s hfe flowing, flowing . . . while the white hair 
would grow among the dark hair, while hnes and 
wrinkles would replace the freshness of youth, while 


T 


290 


THE PASSEE-BY 

flesh would shrink and grow in the wrong places, 
effacing the fairness that was never, no never, to be 
again in all eternity, which would be wasted, when it 
might have been given. To feel this happening now, 
to-morrow, all the time, and keep still, without inner 
rebellion, this was a greater power — and she must reach 
it for his sake. This, which sounded like renounce- 
ment, was all that she had left to share with him, and 
therefore, this seemed to include now, all the other 
treasures that she would never give him. 

The landscape rushed past in a mad flight, it rushed 
past like her life while she was gathered in stillness. 
Now and again the air was rent by the moaning 
whistle of the engine. Then the time would come 
when, after a last moan rending the air, the mad rush 
would slow down, cease, and she would ahght in a 
place of rest where all temptation would drop from 
her. Then, as long ago, she would be roaming on a 
grey autumn evening through the garden from which 
the luxuriance of summer had vanished save for a 
faint echo of dimmed colours, soon to disappear with 
the last chrysanthemums along the soHtary path. 
And then she would know that the wistfulness, heavy 
with obscure yearnings, was changed into one heavy 
with defined regrets, for she would know that the 
winter had come — the winter of life that has no spring. 


XXIV 


W HEN the train stopped at Grantham, stepping 
from the Hghted, heated car, she found herself 
on a track in the chilly night, with the porter bowing 
to her after having put down her traveUing bag 
beside her. Then the engine puffed, the train clanked 
along faster and faster, and she was all alone. But 
in the empty darkness there was something friendly ; 
the little station a hundred yards off twinkled with 
lights, and black against the light she saw a tall, slim 
figure advancing. It was her father, and the next 
instant she was in his arms, while he murmured : 
“ Bless you, my precious child, bless you.” And she 
kept close to him while he looked after her luggage, 
until she was safely cuddled in the “ spring- wagon,” 
glad of the darkness that hid her tears and the emotion 
that he would have seen in her eyes. She felt dread- 
fully unnerved, having to hold on to herself lest she 
might break down in sobs, having to clutch desperately 
at anything that could save her from the sadness 
which had gradually gathered about her and per- 
vaded her in the train. But she was young yet, and 
there was love round her yet, and oh ! this dear old 
“ spring- wagon ” with its tarpaulin buckled up to the 
iron frame that swayed as distressingly as ever on the 
uneven, muddy road ; how she loved it ! And she 
291 


292 


THE PASSEE-BY 


had to say so in the same breath with which she asked 
after her mother. 

“ Mother is well, precious child, except for a httle 
cold. She wanted to come down too, but I wouldn’t 
let her. Grippe is going round the neighbourhood. 
But this isn’t the old spring-wagon, bless you ! This 
is the new one. Didn’t I write about it last autumn ? 
We’ve scarcely used it. We keep it only for grand 
occasions. A mighty fine wagon this is ! ” 

“ Of course, father dear ! How stupid of me ! But 
it’s so dark I couldn’t see it.” How close and how 
far he was from her ! If she could only get close to 
him in every way, and far from herseK in some ways — 
if she could only open herself to the intimate friendli- 
ness which welcomed her out of the darkness, out of 
the smell of wet earth, out of the wheels drumming 
across the old wooden bridge . . . unless this too 
had been rebuilt, but even so it would always be the 
same as of old. All that touched this soil, this air, 
must be changed by them into the immemorial forms 
which belonged to the place. “ Grippe is going round 
the neighbourhood,” even this old, forgotten note 
was so familiar as to sound like one of welcome. 
Something had always been going round the neighbour- 
hood. But now it all came to her like the caress of a 
tenderness that did not understand. There was peace 
and happiness round her, but it did not penetrate 
within her. 

“ And Fred ? How is Fred ? ” asked her father. 

“ Very well. He is so busy, you know. What 
horses are these ? ” 

“ Boots and Shoes ! Don’t you know them ? ” 

“ They seem bigger . . . fatter, I mean.” 


293 


THE PASSER-BY 

“ Yes . . . perhaps. We don’t use them much. 
Won’t you be glad to see HoHday ! Homer has been 
exercising her. He rides her when he goes for the 
mail. Homer ! ” he called out to the driver, “ have 
you exercised HoHday to-day ? ” 

“ Yessir. This morning.” 

“ Miss Angela will want to ride her to-morrow. 
She is all right, isn’t she ? ” 

“ Yessir.” 

HoHday had always meant a great deal to her, and 
now she had almost forgotten her favourite mare ! . . . 

Having accustomed herseK to the darkness, she 
recognized each field, each tree as they went by. 
Ahead she heard the frogs piping out of the ditch near 
the “ double gates,” and then the piping ceased as 
the carriage stopped, and Homer, after having passed 
the reins to her father, jumped from his seat to open 
one gate after the other and shut them again when 
the carriage had gone through. Each gate swung back 
with the same clank that she had heard since she was 
a child, the carriage rolled on through the last field, 
and behind it the frogs began piping again. 

All this held her life at its roots, had thrilled her 
every time that she had come back to it, absorbing her 
into becoming part of it, and now for the first time it 
was all round her, but not in her, and the time when it 
had been seemed very, very far. Something was 
finished, was dead, had passed out of her life, or her 
life had passed out of it, and it was very sad. 

“ To-morrow you’ll see the best wheat of the whole 
neighbourhood in this field,” said her father. “ We’ll 
ride around, and you’U see. All the others are far 
behind.” He told her of his last improvements on 


294 


THE PASSEE-BY 

the farm, where everything was now in “ apple-pie 
order.” He was gradually getting rid of most of the 
live stock which didn’t pay, and raising only mules 
instead. “ I wrote to you about Mirabello, the jackass 
I got last summer ; he’s a wonder ! You’ll see him 
to-morrow. Why ! We got three mules bred from 
Jumping-Jack — ^you know the Colton’s Jack— three 
years ago. And Jumping- Jack can’t hold a candle to 
Mirabello ; well, the three two-year old mules we 
bred from him didn’t cost seventy-five dollars to raise, 
and I refused two hundred and fifty for each of them 
last month. They are worth three hundred, at least, 
and I’ll get it — a handsome profit in two years ! ” 

Then he got on the subject of bees. They were his 
hobby, he handled them personally ; the beehives 
were close to the house, and their number increasing 
every year, determined the planting of trees and 
flowers round the house, on the lawn, in the garden 
from which they were tending to eliminate the roses, 
to the distress of Mrs. Lindsay — Miss Kitty, as she 
was called — for Miss Kitty adored roses. Her dream 
was to have roses climbing, roses in bushes, roses of 
all kinds everywhere, but her dream, like most dreams, 
was never to be fulfilled, because bees did not feed as 
well on roses as on other flowers, and Colonel Lindsay, 
with all his affectionate sweetness, was inexorably 
obstinate. 

Suddenly her grip on her father’s hand tightened. 
The spring-wagon was now crunching the gravel of a 
smooth road, darkened by the statehness of two rows 
of trees ; at the end of the long straight avenue a light 
shone brightly, then more lights glimmered through 
the trees on either side. “ How beautiful ! ” she sighed. 


295 


THE PASSER-BY 

“ You like the old place, eh ? ” 

“ Yes ! Yes, father ! ” she answered with bated 
breath. 

Out of the clumps of huge evergreens that darkened 
that end of the avenue they were now emerging under 
a tracery of black Hmbs arching high above. With 
her eyes raised she followed a pulsating star that 
seemed to race with her through the black tracing. 
It sparkled brightest in the universal darkness, and 
to her it seemed the promise of a serenity into which 
she was already entering. 

“ There’s mother waiting for us,” she heard her 
father say, and lowering her eyes from the star she 
saw the slender figure of her mother silhouetted in 
the light of the open door. 

She almost fell in her eagerness to scramble out of 
the wagon, hanging on to it with arms almost dislo- 
cated, while frantically feeling for the steps in the same 
unlikely places where she used to find them of old. 
Finally her foot slipped along a spoke, rested an in- 
stant on the hub, and somehow she dropped safely to 
the ground, then running forward she clasped the 
frail httle figure in her arms. When she turned at 
last she saw the house servants, Davey, Henrietta, 
and Minerva, all showing their gladness in white 
flashes of teeth and eyes, and she shook hands with 
each. 

In the sitting-room, cosy with the crackhng of a 
huge log fire, and with the tranquil light of students’ 
lamps, she was caught by the sensation that she had 
always had on coming home. Here the flight of time 
seemed arrested, its turmoils soothed. Every piece 
of furniture had an affectionate message. They had 


296 


THE PASSEE-BY 

been the companions of her childhood, then the 
confidants of her girlhood, and they always re- 
mained immutable friends. They had played at 
being horses and carriages, they had become thrones 
and palatial accessories, and when they had resumed 
their unpretentious"^ station they had always pre- 
served the intimate familiarity of beings who had 
seen her grow, and shared with her the happiest part 
of her life. 

“You look thinner,” said her mother anxiously. 
“ Haven’t you been well ? You look tired.” 

“ Just my nerves, mother dear. New York, you 
know.” 

“ You must stay with us now. I’ll write to Fred. 
I don’t Hke to see you look that way. You’ll ride your 
nice mare. We’ve been taking care of her. I always 
insist on Homer exercising her. I was just saying, 
only the other day, that I had a kind of a notion that 
you might come, and that we must keep her ready for 
you. Now, didn’t I, Francis ? ” 

“Yes, mamma.” He was standing against the 
chimney with his hands behind his back, to the fire, 
lifting each sole in turn above the fender, and smihng 
at the group of the mother and daughter, who still 
clung arm in arm to each other. Then his eyes 
strayed comprehensively round the room, as if now 
he found in it a satisfactory completion. “ Do you 
notice the change ? ” he added, addressing his daughter. 

She looked round the room too, and felt a little 
shock of disappointment. The old cream-coloured 
walls seemed all fly-specked. 

“ Don’t you like it ? ” 

She walked up to the speckled wall, answering 


THE PASSER-BY 297 

silently the warning pressure of her mother’s arm. 
The fly-specks, on close inspection, turned out to be 
bees. At regular intervals they rested on sprays of 
honeysuckle. 

“ Don’t you like my bees ? ” 

“ Of course, I love them ! Where on earth did you 
find this wall-paper ? ” 

“ Oh ! He’s been hunting high and low for it. It 
was so hard to find one that was true to nature,” 
explained Miss Kitty. “ Isn’t that so ? ” 

“ Quite,” he assented, beaming. 

She wished to say something pleasing to her father, 
but all she could do was to leave unexpressed her dis- 
appointment. This wall paper spoiled the whole 
room ; it seemed to bewilder every piece of furniture 
in it ; they all appealed to her in their desolation. 
“ What time is dinner ? ” she asked. 

“ It ought to be ready at any minute,” answered 
her mother. 

“ Then I’ll go up to my room for a second.” 

Her own room she found as it had always been since 
she could remember it from the time when it had been 
her nursery. In recesses and corners of cupboards 
and bookcases it held to this day all sorts of reminis- 
cences of every period of her life. And it was one of 
the charms that she had always felt here to find un- 
expectedly, or to hunt for, some trifle which took her 
back years and years. But now, somehow, she was 
afraid of finding parts of herself that way ; the re- 
miniscences nearest in time seemed to withdraw, 
fostering those of a past that had gradually faded — 
a past of old fashions quaintly allied with youth. 
They floated out from every corner in a ghostfike 


298 


THE PASSEE-BY 

image of one very buoyant with hope, who had gone, 
never to be again, and the ghost faced her everywhere, 
exulting inaudibly with a joy of hfe that was no more. 

Down in the dining-room she composed herself to 
cheerfulness. She had always derived a secret pride 
from the good taste with which the ancient mahogany 
table was set with immaculate linen and bright silver. 
Here there were no lamps save one behind the screen 
near the pantry door from which Davey emerged with 
each course ; otherwise the room was lit only by the 
six candles with red shades on the mahogany table. 
It had been so ever since she could remember. Then, 
when the first daffodils bloomed, the gaiety of fiowers 
replaced the wintry sprays of holly in the centre of the 
table, and at all times she derived an agreeable sensa- 
tion akin to surprise at the contrast between the 
persistence of this dainty dignity, and the absence of 
the prosperity and wealth which had first started it 
in this lost corner of the earth. She found, too, some- 
thing touching in the sustained tradition by which 
the major changed his usual coat for a frock-coat, 
the same for years and years, shiny at every seam, 
and in the solemnity with which, before sitting down, 
he said grace. Then the meal, rather slender, was 
soon over — a soup, a course, to-night, but not always, 
a desert — and coffee in the sitting-room, where she 
was the only one to smoke, while the old couple 
settled down to the interminable alternatives of a 
backgammon game, the score of which could be 
traced back to years. 

But this evening they did not begin the game at 
once. The major, standing against the mantelpiece 
with his hands behind his back, lifting each sole in 


299 


THE PASSEE-BY 

turn above the fender, did not desist from question- 
ing her on what was going on in town. What was 
Fred’s opinion of the present crisis in Wall Street ? 
She did not know it. She had already told him 
so. Had the Batemans’ ball really been as won- 
derful as reported by the “ Herald ” ? He in- 
sisted on hearing again the details which she had 
already told him. Was it true that smoking had not 
been allowed at supper, because it was inconsistent 
with the costumes ? “ Oh, father dear ! ” she had to 

end by saying, “ I’ve come here to forget New York. 
It’s all so artificial. It’s on my nerves so ! I rather 
wish you would tell me about things here.” 

“Pshaw ! What am I to tell you ! We’ve taken back 
seats, mamma and I. You know what our life is here.” 

“ But I like to hear about the place. Of the new 
things you are going to show me to-morrow. When I 
am in town everybody asks me about this old place.” 

“ They do, do they ? ” Then gradually he began to 
tell once more of the wheat-field, the best in the neigh- 
bourhood, and of the improvements on the farm, and 
of the jackass Mirabello, then he branched off to the 
bees, while Miss Kitty hstened to these things, surely 
not for the first time, with the attention of one who 
admired. 

And, as long ago, she heard the slow ticking of the 
empire clock measuring out the long winter evenings, 
while some book of her own imagination used to take 
her out into the real world, where big events happened, 
and where she too would live one day. And now the 
real world sickened her with its unreahty. To shrink 
into torpor and cease feehng, that was all that she 
could hope for. 


300 THE PASSEE-BY 

Fearing that the pause might be broken by new 
questions, she picked up a book and said : “ Now, 
why don’t you play your backgammon game ? It’s 
so cosy. And I’ll read. It will just be like old times 
over again.” 

“ Well, shall we begin ? ” said the major, leaving 
the mantelpiece. “ I am twenty-two ahead.” 

“ You just wait,” answered Miss Kitty. Then 
addressing her daughter : “ Did you ever hear such 
bragging ? I was ahead of him all last month. Once 
I beat him fifty games. Isn’t that so ? ” 

“ Pshaw ! I’ll never hear the end of those fifty 
games.” 

They sat down opposite each other with the back- 
gammon board between them on their knees. She 
took a book, opened it and looked at it, but instead of 
reading she hstened to the slow ticking of the Empire 
clock, to the rattling of dice recurring at regular 
intervals, and she glanced at the old couple. They, 
too, must have passed through stress and storms, and 
now they were serene and peaceful, but their peace 
and their serenity seemed dreadfully depressing to 
her ; it had something of the peace of death, such as 
was suggested by the silence of mausoleums and 
cemeteries, and which probably only concealed some- 
thing too deep for us to understand : “ Let’s hope 
so, at least.” Habit had replaced impulse. He wore 
now for dinner and backgammon the frock-coat that 
had been new when he had gone to Washington to be 
appointed minister in some European capital. She 
was a girl of twelve then, but she remembered perfectly 
the period of agitated suspense, then of bitter surprise 
and disappointment, of mutual comforting, as another 


301 


THE PASSER-BY 

man who knew the ropes better had got the place. 
That had been his last battle. After that he had 
given up all ambition, and instead of handhng pubhc 
affairs, he had retired to handle the farm and his bees. 
Still, they were Hke one soul ; they had Hved and hved 
now each for the other, each with the other’s life. 

Then it came to her how such a bond had been 
welded. Both separated almost immediately after 
their marriage by the Civil War, she bearing his first 
and only child, while he fought. Both young and 
good-looking ; what a hero he must have been to her ! 
What passions must have stirred them when the cause 
that separated them had had a power even greater than 
their love ! 

And now their first and only child had grown and 
left them. And when she came back to them it was 
on a “ visit.” Her fife had been severed from theirs ; 
they could not even understand hers. They two only 
understood each other, their life slowly subsided 
together they told each other over and over again 
the same things, they played backgammon, until one 
day, one of them would go, vanish, be no more, and 
the other would be left quite alone. But no, she 
would be there until she herself would be left quite 
alone, for she had no children. . . . 

And the Empire clock went on measuring out the 
long hours with its slow ticking, while the dice rattled 
at regular intervals. At last the major, looking up, 
said : “ Do you know what time it is ? Half-past 
ten ! ” 

“ No ! ” exclaimed Miss Kitty. 

He arose, while she shut and put away the back- 
gammon board. “ I have won again, but I won’t 


302 


THE PASSEE-BY 


crow this time.” His eyes, which she remembered 
smouldering darkly under the deep shadow of his 
eyebrows, had a twinkle of kindly malice now, but it 
was tremulous, with a watery look. 

She got up from her chair too, smiling at her 
father’s little joke, and her bps twitched nervously. 

“ So you like daddy’s new wall-paper ? ” 

“ Yes, daddy, dear ! ” She kissed him. Then she 
rested her face against his shoulder to hide the tears 
that she could no more hold back. 


XXV 


W HEN she stirred out of her sleep the following 
morning, for an instant she did not know where 
she was, finding herself with her head resting where 
she expected her feet to be. 

A dull rumble of distant trolley-cars fioated to her 
ears, then it broke out into the explosion of a turkey- 
gobbler’s chuckhng, and she sat up wide awake. 

She jumped out of her bed, pulled up her bhnds, 
opened the windows, pushed the shutters wide, and 
the sun fiooded the room with a fight that made her 
blink. The trees were still bare, but through their 
wintry interlacing, shaken by the wind, a vivid green 
brightened the lawn. She had not seen it at this time 
of the year since she was a girl. Not far off a tuft of 
daffodils was budding, from the farm came the bleat- 
ing of lambs, and in the hollow, at the foot of the lawn, 
the frogs were piping. There was not an atom of 
what she saw and heard that did not go to her heart, 
or mingle with her being. How differently she felt 
from yesterday ! She had been morbidly depressed 
yesterday — what a hopelessness when ever3d)hing 
breathed hope ! Yesterday she had positively felt 
as if her fife had come to its end. And now it was as 
if fife had no end. She rang for Minerva. 

Why should she not have written to Kamensky ? Why 
303 


304 THE PASSEE-BY 

shouldn’t she have thought of it at once ? Why should 
she have thought that it was not of this earth ? Her 
heart expanded in joy. When Minerva came with her 
breakfast tray she asked about her family, and in- 
quired about the poor coloured people in the neigh- 
bourhood, whom it was her custom to help every time 
that she came home. But now she heard that poor 
Uncle Toby had died during the winter, partly of old 
age and partly of pneumonia. He had been found 
dead all alone in his cabin. And Tishy, on the other 
hand, had had a new baby, the fourteenth, while her 
husband. Uncle Dick, was more shiftless than ever, 
since a shanty had been opened at the cross-roads, 
where whisky was sold. 

“ Give me my bag.” 

Then from it she drew her purse, and out of the 
purse five dollars. “ Now be sure to give that to 
Aunt Tishy when Uncle Dick is out. You know how 
it is, if he gets an inkling of it he’ll take them from her 
and spend them in drink.” 

“ Yes, Miss Angela ! That is sho’ly so ! I’ll do it 
jest as you say, and Uncle Dick won’t know nothing.” 

Minerva Hghted the fire, took the tray off, and was 
going to take the bag too. 

“ No, leave it here.” Then as Minerva closed the 
door noiselessly she took Kamensky’s letter out of 
the bag. “ I am afraid I guess more, I know more 
about you than the discretion which is imposed upon 
me allows me to say.” 

She had thought that in bad taste when she had 
first read it — now it troubled her. While she wished 
she could open her heart to him so that nothing of her 
should be left unknown to him, she couldn’t help 


305 


THE PASSEE-BY 

shrinking under the insight which she had never 
expected him capable of. Every time that she had 
read this letter it had struck her with an increased 
power, as she had realized more every time to what 
extent he had understood her, while she had not been 
aware of it nor of his love. Here was the sore spot — 
that he should have understood her while she was 
infatuated with a shadow. How could he have pre- 
served his ideal in seeing her that way ? In knowing 
the inanity of the man with whom she had been so 
madly infatuated ? Didn’t she despise herself for it 
now ? And he must have guessed and hnovm all, 
which was more than his discretion had allowed him 
to say. . . . 

Now under the increased power of his words there 
was something, there was an elusive note, vaguely 
disquieting, of which she had been aware before, but 
not so distinctly. It was from it that her depression 
had come. It was from it that she had derived the 
sense of finality spreading hke an invisible barrier 
between him and herself. Roughly and vaguely it 
was as if she had been hfted by him only to suffer for 
what she had been before being Hfted. But why ? . . . 

She read the letter twice over, half fearing to stumble 
upon the elusive note suddenly changed into positive 
clearness. But by rereading it with that end in view, 
the letter rather lost some of its original vitality. 
What came out of it most clearly was the cunning 
with which the sentences, first heard from Lore, were 
here repeated, following plausibly the context while 
they must have been carefully pondered and their 
insertion carefully worked out. Yet while this gave 
her an unpleasant feeling, lessening the fervour of 
u 


306 


THE PASSEE-BY 

this letter in which she had found more than comfort, 
she felt that this was not the elusive note that worried 
her. 

There was something maddening in the way one felt 
a thought at the back of one’s head ; one tried to call it 
and coax if forth, and out it would not come until it 
saw fit, perhaps when one had forgotten all about it. 

Whatever worried her was already there, at the 
back of her head working anonymously. It was like 
looking for something one knew one had under one’s 
eyes and yet not seeing it. 

That he should have watched her and understood 
her while she was in love with Lore, through whom 
he saw as through crystal, was humihating enough. 
Could there be something still worse ? No, that must 
be the vaguely disquieting note that worried her. His 
disclosing to her at last the origin of the things by 
which Lore had won her love showed to what extent 
he had guessed. No doubt he had induced Lore to 
leave for San Francisco with him. There too he had 
guessed right. But what power he must have had 
over Lore ! And the idea of making him grow a 
beard ! What a macabre sarcasm there must have 
been in him to conceive such an idea ! Such a terribly 
grotesque idea ! Surely he must have laughed. She 
could not fancy him laughing that way, but he must 
have laughed. . . . 

Suddenly the thought that had been laying low at 
the back of her head sprang forth, fangs out. 

He had done it foreseeing even this, that where his 
words might not have saved her, this beard would. . . . 

She put her hands over her eyes, for now she did 
see him laugh — laugh at the anticipation of his success, 


THE PASSEK-BY 307 

laugh not only at Lore. . . . Letting her down with 
exquisite gentleness, but laughing. He could not 
have helped laughing. . . . “ BHstering humour,” who 
had said that ? Lore, then he, who must have said 
it first, because he knew what blistering humour was, 
he had it in himself . . . but what was he ? 

With an increasing hurry, with an increasing ner- 
vousness, with twitching fingers she dressed herself, 
shpped down to the hall, stole out of the house. It 
was smothering in the house. It was fike breathing 
cotton- wool in the house. Air ! Air ! She must have 
air ! She took to the road that went to the mountain. 
Once out of the shelter of the house with its clusters 
of huge evergreens, the north wind blew her hair in 
disorder ; it blew hard and cold, as hard and as cold 
as the blue of the sky, as the glittering sun that cast 
the rigid shadows of the trees across the crude green of 
the lawn. On she went to the mountain with her 
skirt drawn tightly across her hips, and flapping at her 
heels, that got clogged with red clay. At every step 
the soil sank under her feet, then held her. But once 
she reached the foot of the mountain she would 
strike a dry path covered with dead leaves, and the 
thick woods would protect her. Protect her from 
what ? She did not know. She went, she went to 
soothe the turmoil which sent flame after flame to her 
face, to calm her reason now up in alarm, to scatter 
with the sudden explosion of energy the morbid 
exaggeration of her phantasy which blistered her. 
“ BHstering humour BHstering humour ...” 

So there was nothing ? Nothing but mockery at 
the end of everything ? Not even the infinite sadness 
of a dream ? Tears came to her eyes, and she went 


308 


THE PASSEE-BY 

through ploughed fields, still barren, holding latent 
the coming germination. At times a whole sod stuck 
to her boots, and she had to kick off the soil that 
held her back. Yet his letter showed no trace of 
laughter ? But could it unless he had been a down- 
right brute ? That he was not. But he could not 
help laughing when he had managed to send her back 
Lore. . . . 

And she saw Lore as he had stood in the middle of 
the room, smiling rather mischievously, his smile 
framed by a newly-grown beard that had made of him 
such an extraordinary-looking creature. And she saw 
him disfigured, opening and shutting his mouth again 
and again with no sound coming out of it, his eyes 
lustrous and vacant, ghastly and piteous. . . . 

A new flame shot to her face. He must have 
calculated it, foreseen it all. Foreseen that that was 
necessary — and it was ! — foreseen her shock at the 
sight. It savoured almost more of revenge than of 
rescue. How could she write to him ? How could 
she ? There was something in him beyond her. He 
was now clothed in darkness for her. He was with- 
drawn in darkness from her, and out of the darkness 
she could only hear his laughter. 

She looked ahead, and everywhere the hard sun 
cut out every detail in crude outlines, abofished all 
softness. Every now and then from the forest cover- 
ing the mountain the wind came in a hushed roar. 

Now she did not feel it cold any more. After the 
heavy going of the ploughed field, she climbed a fence, 
then struck the path winding among the dry broom 
grass. Here she walked faster, glowing all over, her 
skin pricked as if by needles from the heat. She took 


309 


THE PASSER-BY 

off her coat, offering her breast to the wind, relishing 
its cold insinuation under her thin blouse. It was 
mighty, it was hard, but it had no mockery. She 
would walk faster and faster, and when she had 
reached the bare top of the mountain she would stand 
above the bluff where it blew strongest, and let herself 
cool down until she got very cold again. It would be 
nice to feel really cold, to feel numb — quite numb — ^yes, 
numb ! 

Her breath came fast and short, there were mo- 
ments when she had to stop because her heart and her 
muscles were not equal to her will. Her town life had 
deteriorated her physical condition. But she gave no 
respite to her body, save that which it exacted out of 
sheer exhaustion. Then on again, her throat parched, 
her head swimming, her body wet under her blouse, 
in spite of the cold wind. On and on with a wild 
satisfaction at the sense of recklessness, at the whiz- 
zing sound of her shortened breath, at the sore burning 
inside her breast, her will galvanizing her legs, that 
felt heavier and heavier. Every now and again she 
stumbled clumsily against a stone. Now when she 
stopped she had to lean against a tree to recover from 
a dizziness which set everything spinning round her. 
Even her joy at her own destruction seemed to scatter, 
leaving her only a mad living thing trying to escape 
from itself. But there was not room enough in the 
whole big world to escape from herself. At the top 
of the mountain, yes, where it was bare and swept by 
the wind, if she kept still. The trees did protect her, 
by hiding her. No more hiding ! No more hiding ! 
She must out of the trees. . . . 

When she reached the top of the mountain her legs 


310 


THE PASSER-BY 

trembled and shook so that she sank to the ground, a 
heaving bundle. She felt hke one drunk, the sun 
looked dark. But she faced the wind. She drank its 
breath, she felt it encircling in frigid currents her 
panting body, and she jdelded herself to it — giving 
herseK to it, possessed by it as she had never been 
possessed. 

The void that gaped at the edge of the bluff had no 
temptation. It would tell tales if she should happen 
to shp into it. But there had to be no tales ; silence, 
silence . . . silence . . . and acquiescence ? . . . No, 
silence was better. 

Gradually her mind got clear again, and clearer, 
then of a heightened lucidity above the stings and 
troubles under which it had writhed. It seemed to 
her that she Hved a pure Hfe more intensely than she 
ever had. Life was so clear and pure in her at this 
moment that it seemed to meet death in the comple- 
tion of a perfect circle. She knew that her body was 
cold, with its perspiration almost iced on it, and that 
her breath came and went, chafing her where she felt 
raw and sore. She heard its sound as a continuous 
lamentation. But aU that was no more herself, and 
this understanding exalted her with an extraordinary 
sense of freedom. Once she had meekly prayed for 
death, but death had to be conquered, and then it 
would yield the supreme peace, the supreme dignity 
that hfe never gave. 

For a long time she sat on the ground, offered to the 
wind that possessed her until she felt as if it pene- 
trated her, piercing her from side to side. But it was 
also as if her fiesh had become as ethereal and in- 
destructible as the wind itself. There was no pain, 


THE PASSEE-BY 311 

there was no particular ill-being, there was only 
absence of sensation. It was as if her body, steeled 
by her will followed it in its conquest of freedom, 
until at last, when she moved, when she attempted to 
get up, then it hurt lamentably, and shook all over 
with shivers. But it had to get up, and walk with 
knees that gave way. No, no . . . the conquest of 
freedom was for herself, not for her body. 

This sense of freedom sustained her wonderfully, 
with a secret joy all day long, during which she man- 
aged to conceal the growing bodily ill-being. At 
dinner her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed, her 
spirits were very high. She deHghted her parents 
with her vivacity, which she could not subdue, even 
after they settled down to their backgammon. No 
sooner had she sat down than she must get up ; and 
she felt very hot, uncomfortably hot, but she did not 
mind it because she knew what it meant ; the only 
thing she was afraid of was to be found out. This 
must not happen, because then they would send for 
the doctor, and keep her in bed. No, this must not 
happen, and it would if she stayed long enough. To- 
morrow she might feel worse, look worse, and then the 
doctor. No, to-morrow she must leave. 

“ How nervous you are to-night.” 

“ I can’t find the book I want.” 

“ Which is it ? ” 

“ Never mind, mother. I think I must have left it 
in my room,” and she went to her room, looked at 
herself in the glass, felt her pulse. Her cheeks were 
aglow, her pulse raced. But no thermometer. To 
know ! To know how it went on ! To watch the 
progress. Perhaps in mother’s room. . . . She wan- 


312 


THE PASSER-BY 

dered, opened and shut drawers filled with packets of 
letters neatly strapped, handkerchiefs, linen tidily 
folded, very white, looking very cold ; it made shivers 
run down her back. Mother’s room was cold, the fire 
had gone down, that was why her teeth chattered. 
She put a log on the fire ; it sent a cloud of sputtering 
sparks up the chimney ; they laughed, but now she 
laughed too. It was nice to laugh and to feel so light, 
light as a feather, fight as if she had been suspended 
in the air. 

Her legs ached, but now they rested, she too 
rested. But how cold she got resting ! The fire 
was like the sun, hard and cold. Downstairs only it 
was warm, but she must get a book to go downstairs 
with, otherwise she would be found out. She wan- 
dered back to her room, picked up a book, and floated 
down. 

Tick-tack, tick-tack went the old Empire clock. 
Rattle, rattle, rattle went the dice. Father and 
mother kept very still in the heat. Too still. How 
could they keep so still? They seemed to simmer. 
The heat buzzed. 

“ Did you find it ? ” 

“ Yes, mother. But now I am very sleepy. I 
didn’t know I could be so sleepy. The fresh air, you 
know. . . . I’ll go to bed. . . . Good night. No ! 
Don’t stop ! Don’t get up ! ” She threw a kiss and 
slipped out. 

Then she locked herself in her room and undressed. 
Every garment seemed a layer of skin that she took off, 
every one that dropped left her colder and colder ; 
how could one feel so cold ? But now she could 
laugh too. She laughed even with her teeth. All of 


313 


THE PASSEE-BY 

her laughed. She shook with laughter from head to 
foot, with a cold laughter, as cold as the sun, but the 
sheets were wet and iced. That was on account of 
the wind, and now she was afraid of the wind ; she 
drew herself into a bunch. . . . 


XXVI 


S HE dressed herself, dismissing Minerva, not letting 
her even open the shutters, because Minerva was 
too faithful, and would tell. It was arduous dressing 
herself that way, with fingers that seemed already 
to be no more her own. At times they would button 
and hook with great skill, all by themselves, then they 
grew suddenly clumsy Hke instruments that she had 
forgotten how to use. But this was a good sign. She 
hoped that soon she would need them no more. That 
she would need no more aU the useless things they 
were made to perform. Dress to undress, undress to 
dress, play bridge, what else ? Nothing useful, any- 
how. If only she could feel less giddy just at present. 
She didn’t mind the aching, the soreness, the chafing 
soreness inside her breast, the worse they grew the 
better, only it must be away from here, away where 
she could be alone, putting ofi the doctor until she 
could smile at his coming. . . . 

The packing of her bag was harder than dressing. 
She was so giddy that she had to sit down, so as not 
to fall, forcing her hands to act, her legs to stand, her 
back not to break. Her body rebelled. She had to 
humour it, otherwise it would tell, like Minerva. 
What a vile thing ! And she had no rouge ! How 
stupid not to paint ! Pinching her cheeks was no 
314 


315 


THE PASSER-BY 

good. How was she to tell mother ? Mother would 
see. Poor mother ! And father ? Poor father ! But 
they couldn’t help her. How could they ? They could 
not understand. Who could understand ? She had 
loved a man without a beard — a man with a beard had 
loved her. She had come to love the man with the 
beard, and he had gone. She would have loved the 
man without a beard, but he had grown a beard and 
looked hke a witty fish in a nightmare — and the man 
who always wore a beard laughed — and nothing was 
left for her to five for. Who could understand ? It 
was hke a nightmare, from which she could not wake 
up. She could not go on living in a nightmare. But 
she could not explain. What could she tell mother ? 
That’s done ! and she snapped to the bag, rang the 
bell, and sat down. 

Now she felt very fight again. She floated. It 
was delicious, no thoughts. Spinning, spinning, spin- 
ning, spinning. . . . 

“ Come in.” 

“ Oh ! Miss Angela ! You’ve dressed all by your- 
self. Why ? Are you sick ? ” and Minerva stood 
looking at her. 

“ No . . . no . . . just a bit seedy.” 

“You better be careful. Miss Angela. Grippe is 
goin’ round the neighbourhood.” 

“ I know it.” 

“ The doctor is racing round as hard as he can, and 
can’t ketch up with hisself.” 

“You make my head spin, Minerva. That’s why 
I am going back to town. I am afraid of being ill 
and caught here. Do you remember that time ? 
And the doctor never could come for hours ? ” 


316 


THE PASSEE-BY 


“ Lord, Miss Angela ! Sho’ly you ain’t goin to 
leave us this way ! IMiss Kitty won’t let you.” 

“ Never mind, Minerva ; now please pack my trunk. 
Mother knows I’ll be taken care of in town better than 
here. There are nurses in town, and lots and lots of 
doctors. Where is mother ? ” 

“ Down in the settin’-room.” 

“Do I look ill ? ” With one hand she felt the 
other’s pulse. 

“You look kind of pale, and wore out ; you cert’ny do.” 

She couldn’t tell whether she had temperature or 
not. Then perhaps she hadn’t. Her pulse had 
stopped racing the way it had last night. Now it was 
like a thin, thin thread ; she could scarcely find it. 
Weakness and nerves. It was early. Later the 
fever would come on again. To sit down made her 
feel better, also to talk to Minerva. Minerva was 
strong and simple, she was steadying. “ Bring me a 
glass of milk, please, with a spoonful of whisky in it.” 

“ Yes’m.” 

“ Minerva ! ” 

The servant turned round on the threshold. 

“ Don’t you say a word to Miss Kitty. I’ll tell her 
myself. I am not ill. Not now. I’ve had a bad 
night. I am better now. But I am dreadfully afraid 
of being ill here. Do you understand ? Not a word. 
I trust you.” 

“ Yes’m.” 

Now she felt better. The milk and whisky would 
strengthen her. She must pull herself together. 
She must have aU her wits about her to persuade 
mother. What could she say ? Her head was empty 
and light ; it seemed to draw her all upward into the 


THE PASSEE-BY 317 

air, but it couldn’t think. Better trust to luck then. 
But go she must. She lapsed into inertia, lulled by a 
swaying sensation. 

The door opened softly, and Minerva came forward 
with a glass of milk on a tray. She sipped, sipped 
again ; it tasted bitter. 

“ That’s right. Miss Angela. You didn’t eat no 
breakfast to speak of. I thought somethin’ was 
wrong.” 

“ Nothing is wrong.” She sipped and sipped, 
forcing herself to drain the glass. Then, from behind 
Minerva, she saw her mother coming forward almost 
stealthily. 

“ How are you, my precious child ? ” 

“ I don’t feel quite well, mother dear. Just a touch 
of the grippe, I suppose.” 

“ Why didn’t you stay in bed, darling ? ” 

She noticed that her mother watched her anxiously. 
“ Because I felt well enough to get up. Has Minerva 
been telHng you things ? ” 

“ Minerva has told me nothing.” 

“ Nothing ? Mother ...” She looked at her 
mother steadily. She knew her total incapacity for 
concealment. “ Nothing at all ? Now, mother . . .” 
and she kept on looking steadily, conscious of a grow- 
ing assurance, as she felt her mother’s faltering. 

“ Nothing about your being sick.” 

“ What about then ? ” 

“ She only said I had better come up and see you. 
That’s all she said,” and she watched her daughter 
anxiously. 

She put the glass back on the tray, looked straight 
in the servant’s eyes, and said : “ That will do.” 


318 


THE PASSEE-BY 


“ Shall I pack your trunk, now Miss Angela ? ” 

“ Pack your trunk ? ” . . . Mrs. Lindsay’s sur- 
prise was too genuine to have been held in abeyance 
until now. 

“ Yes, mother dear. I am going back to town, to 
come back again as soon as I feel well. I didn’t feel 
quite well when I came. Nerves, you know. I 
thought the air would do me good, the change I mean. 
But if I catch grippe then I’ll never get well. The 
doctor told me so before I left town. Grippe is my 
curse. I should be afraid of being ill with grippe here.” 

“ Angela, my precious child ! I won’t let you go. 
It would be madness. Look at yourseK ! You can’t 
travel this way. You are hiding something from me. 
I told Francis so last night. What is it, darhng ? 
Tell your mother.” 

“ Oh ! Mother dear ! Why do you say these 
things ? Do you wish me to stay here ? And get ill, 
with no nurses ? With no medicines at hand ? And 
worry you and father to death ? Do you remember 
that night ? You ’phoned for the doctor, and he was 
out all over the country looking after other people ? 
And he never came until late in the morning, and the 
medicines never came until late at night ? Wouldn’t 
you have been glad to know that I was in town sur- 
rounded by every possible care within call ? Now, 
wouldn’t you ? ” 

“ But what’s the matter with you, darling ? I am 
worried to death right now. Have you had troubles ? 
Troubles you kept from me ? Has Fred been un- 
kind ? ” 

“ Listen, mother. It is just as I tell you. You 
needn’t be worried. My nerves are a bit shattered. 


319 


THE PASSEE-BY 

That’s all. I know it ; I get irritable, fractious. I 
thought I was better when I came, but I was mistaken. 
You mustn’t insist. Just reflect, would you have 
me down in bed here with grippe and nervous prostra- 
tion ? What would you do ? Just reflect upon it, 
what would you do ? Would you be glad you pre- 
vented me from being near my doctor, who has known 
me for these last ten years ? Whom I can call in at any 
minute, day and night ? Would you ? ” The whisky 
and milk were doing her good. She felt a stream of 
words, of arguments flowing, flowing without any 
effort. She turned to Minerva ; “ Yes, you might 
pack now.” 

“ Oh, Angela ! My precious child ! ” sighed Mrs. 
Lindsay, flnding no words. Then they came. “ But 
I can’t let you go this way. I’ll come too.” 

She gazed at her mother, and in her turn she found 
no words at once. “ Mother, I can’t let you. We 
are making a mountain out of a mole-hilJ. You’ll make 
me wish I hadn’t come at all. I feel I am upsetting 
everything and everybody. I can’t bear your leaving 
father here aU alone. What will he do during the 
long evenings ? And then I want to feel that I can 
come and go without upsetting your peaceful life. 
You’ve had all your share of trouble already.” 

“ I’U go and speak to Francis.” 

Mrs. Moore saw clearly that her mother was all the 
more anxious because she did not consider her quite 
responsible. “ Mother dear, please ! Please ! Don’t 
worry father. It’s really not worth while — and it’s 
cruel, mother ! ” But she understood the uselessness 
of her entreaty. Her poor little mother was quite 
bewildered, while she now felt only a bit giddy and 


320 


THE PASSER-BY 


weak ; this was providential ; also no doubt due to 
the whisky and milk. 

“ Minerva ! ” 

“ Yes’m.” 

“ Will you please get me another glass of milk and 
whisky ? But bring the whisky separately. I mightn’t 
need it at all.” 

“ Yes’m.” 

The moment Minerva had gone she got up, and 
found herself more steady. She looked at herself in 
the glass, and found herself less pale. All this fuss 
was absurd — and heavens ! It might end by making 
her miss the train ! She must go and meet her father. 
Descending the stairs she felt wobbly. In the haU she 
ran across Minerva with the tray. She took it and 
sent the servant back to her packing ; then, having 
glanced around, she drank the pure whisky at one gulp. 

The sitting-room was empty. On the porch the sun 
and the fresh balmy air intoxicated her. She felt 
strong and light and queer. There ! He was coming 
from the beehives, with mother trotting after him. 

“ WeU, father ! ” 

“ What’s all this fuss about, Angela ? ” 

“ It’s mother. I told her not to fuss.” 

“ You want to leave. Is that true ? ” 

“ Yes. I must. Now, I am sure you’ll be reason- 
able. I haven’t been well lately. I ought to have 
waited a while before coming to see you, but I was 
naughty and wouldn’t. Last night I had a little fever. 
I see that I oughtn’t to have stopped my treatment yet. 
So I am going back to it. New York life gives one 
strange troubles, and it takes a New York doctor to 
cure them. Do you see ? ” 


321 


THE PASSEE-BY 

“ You look all right now. Pshaw ! You didn’t 
tell us you had been ill. What is it, child ? lam all 
upset.” 

“ Of course, poor father. Mother upset you. What 
time is it ? ” 

“ HaK-past ten.” 

“ Will you order the carriage ? For twelve, isn’t 
it ? ” 

He hesitated, looking disconcertedly at his wife. 

“ Well, let him go with you.” 

“ And you’ll be here all alone. . . .” 

“ I’d rather be alone than know you are alone, 
feeling as you do.” 

They discussed the matter a little longer, and ended 
with a compromise. He would go as far as Washing- 
ton, and there see her safely on the New York train. 
He also ’phoned down to the station to telegraph for a 
state room in the New York train from Washington, 
and another telegram was sent to her maid, who was 
to meet her at Jersey City. 

“ Why not Fred ? ” asked her mother. 

Because Fred might be absent, and the telegram 
remain unopened. 

She knew that she was reckless and hard, but for 
the moment she could not afford to let herself be 
softened. Besides, she couldn’t if she had wished to. 
She felt all tense toward a supreme goal. It drew her 
as a flame drew a moth. Under the cheerful in- 
difference with which she played to soothe the latent 
anxiety that surrounded her, there was in her a per- 
verse will set with a firmness never experienced before ; 
and it was this that had subdued everything around 
-her. She had done with sadness and with sentiment- 


X 


322 


THE PASSEE-BY 

ality. The chords of either seemed to have snapped 
within her. What was left of them only vibrated for 
an instant at the end, when the carriage drew up to 
the porch, then she gathered her mother in her arms : 
“ Dearest, kindest of all httle mothers.” Cheek to 
cheek she held the little frail figure against herself, and 
for a moment was wordless, giving out silently all the 
love that was left in her heart. 

Then came the drive to the station through the 
balmy spring air, sparkhng with hght, that meant 
nothing now to her, not even irony, only one more of 
the endless repetitions of nature, by which she lured 
plants, beasts, and men to an ephemeral renewal and 
to an ephemeral hope. The wheat-field was caught 
by it, and so was Major Lindsay, who reckoned al- 
ready on the future harvest of crops and honey. 

Then she was on the train. It was the train for her, 
the unique train that took her to her goal. But it was 
such only for her, to all others just the everyday, 
twelve-twenty train, with the same conductor, for 
whom she was but a passenger with a ticket for New 
York. He examined it and punched it at the right 
spot ; that was the only thing about her of importance 
to him. Nothing really was ; all was illusion. 

To the major, who began to ask questions, she 
answered that now she was sleepy. She would try to 
doze. 

“ Do you feel badly ? ” 

“ No — only a bit weak. I’ll have a httle whisky 
after a while.” 

“ I’U get it for you after Carters ville. They’ll put on 
the dining-car at Carters ville.” 

She sank into vagueness, with brief speUs of dozing, 


THE PASSEE-BY 323 

broken by a feeling as of suffocation, when her heart 
seemed to miss two, three pulsations at a time. 

To the noise and the rh3d;hm of the wheels a music 
went on in her mind with lovely harmonies. It 
worked itself out with surprising spontaneity. It was 
hke a winding thread, whirhng, twisting this way and 
that, completely out of her control, and yet coming 
from within herself. Then suddenly it was broken, 
dispersed most irritatingly by the moaning whistle of 
the engine quite out of tune with it. But once the 
moaning whistle had ceased, the music would start 
again of itself. 

After Cartersville, the major brought her a small 
glass of whisky. It infused life into her. She noticed 
with interest people about her. A young couple on the 
next seat across the aisle. On the seat opposite them 
a httle girl of four or five lay asleep. It was a beautiful 
child, and in her sleep she appeared infinitely pathetic 
to Mrs. Moore, why, she did not know exactly. The 
more she looked at the child the more she felt moved ; 
then she thought it was because of the utter confidence 
of the poor little tot ; it reminded her of her own confi- 
dence in fife, when she, too, had been a httle tot, and 
later. What was l3dng in wait for that child ? Then 
she thought of how she would have protected it had it 
been her own, with what a limitless tenderness, and 
at that she realized the immense gap in her own life 
devoid of children. They would have been the ties 
that would have anchored her, when every other tie 
had gone. On this she dwelt pensively, while the 
major read the New York papers that had been brought 
into the train at Cartersville. 

“ Pshaw ! The market has gone down again ! I 


324 


THE PASSEE-BY 

suppose Fred must have foreseen it. Hasn’t he told 
you an3rthing about it ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ He never speaks of the market ? ” 

“ Not to me.” 

“ Is there ... is there . . . anything between you 
two ? Tell me, tell your daddy.” 

“ No — there’s nothing between us. The idea ! 
What else did you find in the paper ? ” 

“ Nothing particular ; the usual things, poisoning 
cases, kidnapping, murders. Mamma had an idea 
there was something between you and Fred.” 

“ No, father ... I told you. Don’t you want your 
lunch ? ” 

“ I think I’ll go and get a bite. Won’t you come 
too ? ” 

“ No. I am not hungry. If you send me a cup of 
bouillon and a cracker, it’s all I need.” 

He got up, looked at her and shook his head. “ You 
ought to eat. That would make you feel better. A 
steak, a nice porterhouse steak, with Saratoga chips, 
wouldn’t you hke it ? They do them mighty well on 
this train.” 

“ No ! No, father ! Please ! ” and her inner re- 
vulsion at his proposal was in her voice, in her eyes. 

“ All right ! All right, child ! It was only for your 
sake. A cup of bouillon then. You’ll take that ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

And he went, while she relapsed into musing. 

The young couple across the aisle were unpacking 
some sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs on a news- 
paper across their knees. The httle girl had awakened 
and stood by her mother watching the food being 


325 


THE PASSER-BY 

prepared. From behind, she appeared even more 
pathetic to Mrs. Moore, with her Httle cap fitting her 
head closely all around, except for a scoop at the back, 
from which her blond curls escaped. There was some- 
thing so innocently animal in her greediness as she 
watched every package being undone. As far as that 
went though, the animal side was visible in every 
member of the perfect trinity of this family. It was 
the animal ties that held them together strongest. 
Save for being in a Pullman car and wearing clothes 
they acted hke a Httle family of chimpanzees in a 
forest. There lay their strength and their attachment 
to life. She who had no such attachments had strayed 
after something higher and . . . here she was. . . . 
Had she had children, it would have been different. 

. . . Still, it was better for the children not to have 
been born. 

“ Chicken broth for you, miss ? ” 

She took it from the amiably grinning negro, and 
swallowed it Hke a medicine, looking out of the window 
between sip and sip, looking out of the window to no- 
where. 

Again the music began, cadenced to the rhythm of 
the wheels, rising out of the confused neutral noise of 
the rushing train. Yes, she might have had a child^ 
nine years old by now. She wondered what it would 
have been Hke. He, or she would have held the animal 
in her, at any rate. Now she had no animal in herself 
nor anything else ; she was nothing, nothing . . . but 
she was what could know that she was nothing. What 
was the use of being, only to know that one was noth- 
ing ? The most logical thing was to stop thinking 
that one was nothing by becoming nothing. . . . 


326 


THE PASSEE-BY 


The child played along the aisle ; it ran away from, 
then back to its mother, with little shrieks of joy. 
Then it settled down to play all by itself on the floor. 

After a while, its mother leaned out of her seat and 
called : “ Lucy ! Lucy darling ! Don’t play with 

that cuspidore ! ” 

Then Mrs. Moore smiled, in spite of herself. 


XXVII 


T his was the second day since her return to town. 

She ached dreadfully, coughed, and was a trifle 
feverish. But now that she had a thermometer she 
found that the fever was lessening every day. A bad 
cold ! That was all that she had got ! That was the 
way things went. People who were wrecked and 
soaked for hours in the ocean got out of it without even 
rheumatism, others died with pneumonia caught from 
a draught from a chink in the door. But there were 
ways. Chloroform for insomnia. . . . She had in- 
somnia. . . . Then an overdose. . . . 

She looked at herself in the glass before which she 
sat in her dressing-room getting ready to go to bed. 

She looked and looked fascinated by herself until 
the features and the expression that were herself be- 
came meaningless, hke a word or a name too long 
repeated. In the glass she examined her appearance, 
with her mind she sounded her consciousness, and 
neither told her anything. “ I . . . I . . .” her lips 
repeated, as they might have repeated the name of 
some one absent, and she looked insistently into her 
own eyes until they became uncanny, until she was 
looking into other eyes that looked into hers almost 
frightening her, but keeping their secret. What was 
it of her that was going to destroy this of her which 
327 


328 


THE PASSER-BY 


she did not know ? Which was so totally unknown 
to her ? The more she looked in the eyes that looked 
into hers, the less she knew them. They were sphinx- 
hke, they were provoking, they defied her and death. 
Far within them there was almost mockery, the elusive 
mockery that as a child she saw in her own shadow 
on the ground when she tried to jump beyond it. 
Death a snare like the rest ? . . . 

Even so, she accepted the challenge of the eyes 
which kept their secret in their black expressionless 
depths. She would close them. They would no more 
defy her. And if that which she would destroy should 
not be that which defied her ? If that which defied 
her should look at this which she could feel How with 
her hands ? At this which was warm and would be 
cold ? Which was which ? Which was herself ? 
Who was she ? She was going crazy ! 

She paced the fioor, forgetful of her aches, of her 
ill-being, thinking of herself as of some one else, con- 
fronted as by an incalculable comphcation, feeling 
that she was everywhere and nowhere. Could she 
get at it all ? End it all in so easy and simple a way ? 
Wasn’t there another trap behind it ? Could she de- 
stroy trap and all ? All what ? What ? Her head 
reeled. Nerves ? Fever ? 

No. . . . No . . . the secret. She had almost come 
upon it. . . . She must gather herself, gather all her 
dispersed reason, then try once more. 

She went before the mirror, stood awhile with her 
eyes closed, then sat down and looked. 

She almost gave a cry, but immediately composed 
herself. Behind her, on the threshold, her husband 
stood very still, but he looked gaunt. At first he 


THE PASSEE-BY 329 

had appeared in the mirror a httle hke the ghost of 
himself. 

“ How are you, Angela ? ” 

“ Very well, thank you,” she spoke without turning 
round, looking at him in the mirror, where the glass 
stood between them. 

“ Are you alone ? Is Betty in your bedroom ? ” 

“ No.” 

He turned round, closed the door behind him, then 
faced her again in the glass. “ I’ve got bad news.” 

She wondered for an instant. But what mattered ? 
“ Bad news ? . . .” 

“ We are ruined. Finished. To-morrow morning 
it will be in all the papers.” 

“ Ah ? ” she repeated absently. What mattered? . . . 

He stood still, dumb. He understood — she had 
foreseen it and prepared for it. After her return he 
had waited for her to send him a word of some kind, 
had expected it for two days. Then with scarcely 
any hope left he had come to her. And now he under- 
stood all the hopelessness of any attempt at a recon- 
ciliation in which only he could find the force to five. 
He understood — she would go back to her parents, a 
stranger to him, and then he could not go on hving. 
No one, no one to turn to. . . . If to her he could not 
tell his utter distress, he could to no one. But she 
made it impossible for him to say this thing. And he 
stood still on the threshold. 

To her he looked as if he had returned from a long 
journey, during which she had caught glimpses of him 
through the wrong end of the opera-glass. But now 
he was suddenly very close, and changed, looking a 
little hke the ghost of his former self. In him some- 


330 


THE PASSEE-BY 


thing had been destroyed and something survived. 
What survived looked at her from the depth of the 
mirror, as he had never looked at her before. 

“ Are you dining out ? ” he asked. 

“ No.” 

“ Are you having people for dinner ? ” 

“ No.” 

There was a pause, during which their eyes were 
fixed on each other through the looking-glass. 

His heart sank. Unfit for batthng any longer, he 
needed her as he had never dreamed of needing any 
one. She had become precious, as if with the magni- 
fied value of all that had gone — ^his riches and his 
pride. Heedless of humiliation he would have dropped 
on his knees, crawled to her and clung to her gown, if 
that would have held her. But she almost appalled 
him, so inhuman was she. 

Their eyes were still fixed in each other’s through 
the mirror, and hers were unhke what he had seen 
them before. He could not imderstand. 

“ Will you dine with me, this once ? I have nothing 
else left ; just this once ? . . . I am very lonely. . . .” 
There had been a quaver in his voice. 

Then a clear understanding, a warm wave of pure 
tenderness swayed her, aboHshed aU thoughts of self 
in her, sent her springing to her feet with her arms 
open to him, and the words rushed to her hps : “ Come, 
Fred ! Come, my poor Fred ! ” 


WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD. 
PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH 


LB Je’2G 






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